


Starmate

by krosevilla



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Character Study, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Murder, Inspired by The Most Beautiful Moment In Life | HYYH, Lee Minho | Lee Know-centric, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28423077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krosevilla/pseuds/krosevilla
Summary: “I didn’t think I would be able to shake you even if I tried,” Minho sighed. “No matter how far we drift apart, I always find myself back here. Like a pair of stars. Like a… what the hell did you even call it?”“A starmate,” Jisung answered, grinning that gummy smile that Minho always yearned to kiss silly.+In a despairing turn of events, Minho is left without a single recollection from the past two years; he has no clue as to why his friends have drifted apart or why trying to remember what he’s lost only leaves him with a blistering ache instead of tender memories.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 53





	1. gone days

**Author's Note:**

> hello :]
> 
> this work was inspired by the discovery of the hyyh storyline that many of BTS's music videos follow. i sort of just took a glimpse at the premise and ran with it in this piece. I'm not well-versed in the hyyh universe so most of what happens in the events of the story are largely based on my own creative process, but i apologize in advance if there are any glaring similarities between the two.
> 
> also, i am not a medical professional in any way so please forgive if the details provided by my research are not completely accurate. then again, this is a work of fiction, so i hope u can look past them :]
> 
> tw: there are references to past child abuse and character death, but nothing extremely graphic

The scent of antiseptics and stiffly washed linens wafts into Minho’s face as his sense of smell is the first to return to him. For a moment, it puzzles him, along with the ear-puncturing beeping that increases in volume as Minho steadily regains his consciousness, but then a splitting pain bursts throughout the back of his skull and overwhelms every single sensation in his body. It numbs him, pushing out a stunted groan as the intense feeling spiderwebs until it engulfs his entire head and lulls it into a dull throbbing in beat with the noisy hospital monitor beside him. 

“Hyung?” 

Minho can hear a distant and familiar voice calling out, warped in his delirium, along with the soft echo of approaching steps on laminated tile, but the pulsing ache inside his skull makes it difficult to decipher reality from fabrication. 

He wills whatever ounce of strength he has into his eyelids to crack them open. Blurred vision floods with a dreary wash of white, blinding and bright but nothing pleasing. It’s only after he blinks a few tried times that he can finally make out his surroundings. 

It looks how it smells—bland walls and equally bland floors create a suitable enclosure for the stale air that settles on Minho’s palate. Curtains line the single window in the farthest corner of the room adjacent to the birch wood door, barred with polished metal and adding to the solemn atmosphere the space fosters. 

As he slowly sweeps the perimeters, he finally registers the warm weight on his knuckles and grapples to carry his line of sight over to his left. A vague silhouette sits there, but Minho already knows who it is from the light palm draped over his own.

“Mm… Min…,” he mumbles. The tackiness in his mouth tastes of medication and copper. “Seungminnie…”

The silhouette nods and squeezes Minho’s fingers in a reassuring grip. “I’m here, hyung. I’m okay. We’re okay.” There’s a frantically relieved edge to his brother’s tonality, which unnerves him. 

“Minnie… Where…?”

Seungmin understands without any further clarification. “We’re in the hospital, hyung. You’ve been out for a couple days.” 

The heaviness in his bones and his muddled state further supports this statement. His incoherence finally subsides enough that he can, at last, take in the tired lines and faded bruises that are drawn into Seungmin’s features. There are a few stitches on his left cheekbone where the raised skin is colored a dark pink, contrasting the muddied yellow that fills the plumpness around his right eye, accompanied by an angry purple within the center of the paling bruise. Minho stares, and he hates that this sight isn’t anything new to him, but it doesn’t hurt any less. 

“What happened?” he whispers. His fingers twitch to curl around Seungmin’s though they have yet to recover from his recent comatose state. 

Seungmin’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You got hit in the head real hard.”

“No,” Minho winces, the pain duller now that he’s growing accustomed to it, and partially by reason of a high pain tolerance. “I mean you—why are we in the hospital? Where is he?”

Tension squares Seungmin’s shoulders and his hand squeezes tighter, undoubtedly at the inexplicit reference to their uncle. The man would have never taken the two brothers to the hospital at the risk of medical professionals prodding him for reasons of their injuries and scars, which are almost always a direct result of his own drunken fists. The way that Seungmin shakes is habitual at this point, bred into his defenses from the years that they have been living— _surviving_ under their uncle’s roof. 

Minho thumbs at his brother’s trembling knuckle in routine reassurance and, in his customarily keen perception, picks up a variance in the way Seungmin peers down at him. His dark eyes stir with a familiar fear and uncertainty, except there’s an intensity laced deep underneath that sinks unpleasantly into Minho’s stomach.

Clarity comes in the form of a small, scared breath of an answer. “He’s dead, hyung.” 

  
  


+

  
  


Minho was only a few months conceived when his father decided to pack his bags and make his way back to the life of a bachelor. He has never met this so-called father of his, nor does he feel inclined to, because any man who would have willingly left his mother is someone who is not of sane mind. 

Independent, head-strong, and dedicated, his mother is not a woman who would ever let a man ruin her life. She would tell him stories of how she had worked countless part-time jobs in order to provide a somewhat comfortable life for the two of them, even declining housing offers that her parents had tried to convince her to accept. 

But, she would have none of it—she was nothing if not liberated. Many would mistake this for pride, though Minho knows that it was her way of proving that she could take care of herself and, in turn, that she could take care of her son. 

Though the maverick she was, this didn’t stop her from letting herself fall in love again. She had met Minho’s step-father when he was only a year old, but never had Minho ever considered him any less of an actual father despite their lack of shared genetics. Being as young as he was, the idea of labeling themselves somewhat of a broken family was ridiculous; this was the only family that he’d ever known. It didn’t matter if he had never met his biological father or that his parents had married when he was on the edge of three. His parents loved him as much as any parents could love their child—biology be damned.

Then Seungmin was born, and Minho’s heart soared with a brotherly love that he never knew he had craved to practice. From the moment he had laid his eyes on the newborn’s thin nose and slipped his pinky into his tiny-fingered grip, he knew that he would do anything in his power to be the best big brother that he could possibly be. And he is, if he can say so himself, although Seungmin would annoyingly disagree.

Their quaint family of four might not have had the most lavish lifestyle in their fourth-floor, two-bedroom apartment, but they were content in the company of each other. Minho’s adolescence had been of the more fortunate compared to less advantaged kids his age. 

He had seen classmates who would petulantly lash out at others, pick on younger students knowing that their seniority would prove advantageous, reveal the uglier sides of what people are truly capable of. Minho was lucky enough to never be involved in those situations, though he might have come close in some instances, and he will always thank his upbringing for the quick-witted head on his shoulders. 

“Of course you’re smart,” his mother would always say. “You’re my son.”

Then she would give a cheeky wink while his father claimed Minho’s well-read aptitude to be of his doing in their childish banter afterwards. Seungmin and Minho would laugh and enjoy the rest of their shared day like they always did.

  
  


But all good things come to an end, and Minho’s ends with the death of his parents when he was only fifteen years old. 

His parents had always told him to keep his nose out of trouble and Seungmin’s even further away, so their premature demise is hypocritical in the way that their father had tried to stop a stick-up at a liquor store, the two in search of a nice bottle of wine for a co-worker’s engagement, only for the robber’s accomplice to gun them both down in a panicked retaliation. Their father had been dead before he had even hit the ground, or so the police say, while their mother had bled out in the latexed hands of the paramedics bringing her bullet-riddled body to the hospital. 

That night, as the sun began to set over the police station on a foggy summer day, Minho had locked his gangly arms around Seungmin’s small frame as his younger brother wailed into his chest, his hands twisted tightly into thick fabric lining small, heaving shoulders to make sure that no one would ever take his family away from him ever again.

The officers were nice, cautious like treating feral game, and provided them plush blankets for a better night’s sleep on the hard slabs of the holding cells until their only known in-country relative arrived to claim them as their new guardian.

Minho was familiar with their uncle, Seungmin even more so. He was a burly man with a rotund stomach and deep smile lines. Cologned with cigarette smoke and the same eyes as their late father, their uncle appeared a menacing man but had shown a previous fondness for the boys in the few times that their small network of relatives had gathered for events. Seungmin had especially held him in high regard for his outward masculinity and brawny character. Minho had thought it ridiculous. Even so, he could never find it in himself to shoot down his brother’s juvenile ideals just yet, and their uncle was a good man. 

He had cleaned out his office space for them to share a cramped room in his run-down apartment on the corner of a sketchy neighborhood a few towns away, feeding them store-bought dumplings until their stomachs were about to pop from their fullness and the laughter he managed to wrangle out of them.

However, after days of overhearing angry conversations behind closed doors and witnessing a tall woman with rounded features messily gather random belongings around the flat only to leave behind a diamond-embedded ring, their uncle changed into a different person. 

As the number of liquor bottles littering the hardwood floors increased at an alarming rate, Minho tried his best to keep his word in protecting Seungmin by shielding him from the brunt of their uncle’s downfall and the brunt of his spiteful boot. 

He isn’t sure if Seungmin was quiet during these times from reasonable fear or if it was the silent understanding that noisy outcries would only result in a worsened beating—but Seungmin is also their parent’s son, so Minho likes to settle with the latter idea more.

Sometimes though, when their uncle’s alcohol content wasn’t spiking considerable levels, Minho could vaguely see the ghost of the man he once knew as a child. He could catch fleeting glimpses of someone who reminded him of family, and he knows that Seungmin could also see it from the way the younger would keep a creased picture of their uncle holding him as an infant, mirrored smiles bright and glossy, plastered to the wall in the bottom of their packed closet. 

Minho had hated his uncle for the terrifying years he had put them through, using them to earn stimulus money from the government, where he had treated them like an extra source of income to be used and left to rot. But somewhere deep, deep down in the bowels of his conscious, Minho understands. 

He understands that their parents’ death had left their uncle with no choice but to become the second-worst option next to the orphanage, sacrificing the life that he had cherished so fervently for the sake of granting Minho and Seungmin even the tiniest sliver of normalcy that they could grasp onto. He understands the frustration that reared its ugly head after a desperate phone call from his uncle’s boss explaining that they couldn’t promote him due to relocation qualifications. He understands that a reluctance in raising someone else’s children was the reason as to why that woman had left even despite their uncle’s pathetic excuse of begging for her not to and he understands why his uncle eyes the engraved bracelet that she had given him, a sweet solid gold promise of their forever together, in such a heartbroken gaze. Sometimes, the shadows within its carved inscription would reel Minho in and haunt him of the burdens that his existence has caused, the mere sight of the letters B.A.Y. together mocking him no matter where they are seen by chance.

So when Seungmin tells him that Minho had stabbed their uncle in the neck with the broken end of his many empty liquor bottles, he doesn’t know what to feel. 

  
  


\+ 

“I already told the officers everything,” Seungmin says after the medical staff leave with the promise to return after Minho’s disorientation wanes. “They said they would be back to speak with you as soon as they know you’re awake.”

Minho nods, his strength slowly recuperating as the sun creeps up the ladder of clouds so high that he can’t see it from the window’s barred frame. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be; everything is still… not all there for me.”

Seungmin gives a tired uptick of his lips. “I don’t think you’re ever all there, stupid.”

“You’re lucky I just woke up from a coma or I would backslap the shit out of you to match the gash in my head,” Minho grumbles, his eyes drifting back closed to spare them from the dry intensity of the hospital room’s dull white paint. 

He takes a deep breath, letting his body sink further into the surprisingly comfortable cot. A moment of silence lazily drifts inside the room before he hears a faint intake of breath partnered by Seungmin giving a gentle squeeze to his forearm.

“I told them that what you did—it was… it was the right thing to do,” he says. “That day I really thought that I was going to die.”

Minho pries his eyes back open to watch his brother dawn a solemn frown, gaze distant. 

Seungmin continues, “He was going on again about the bracelet that he lost. Even though it had been missing for months, he was still convinced that one of us took it and I just got tired of it so I—I told him that maybe he lost it and it wasn’t _our_ fault. But… I kind of implied that it was _his_ fault and—I think a part of me just snapped that day because I didn’t know when you were coming home so I freaked out and… I’ve never seen him so angry.”

The blunt fingers on his forearm tighten in the younger’s white-knuckled grip. The dread in the downturn of his mouth is evident, though it seems lessened nowadays, possibly from the realization that they would never have to experience their uncle’s wrath again.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stand up to him like you always could,” Seungmin’s voice cracks at this. “I had almost imagined what it would be like to do it but—I didn’t think that I would feel so sure that I would die.”

“No,” Minho grunts. “I would never let that happen.”

And he wouldn’t—and he didn’t. And Seungmin seemingly believes his every word from the way his almond eyes glaze over with a grateful shine. Minho feels warm wetness soak into his skin as Seungmin presses the warmth of his forehead against his older brother’s wrist. The latter whispers habitual soft reassurances into the dull hospital air, the only notion running through his mind a million thankful prayers that Seungmin is there with him, not the one in the hospital bed, weeping safely at his side. 

A nurse comes in for a moment only to witness the scene and flee soon after. 

Minho counts the few dozen beeps of the heart monitor after his murmurs dissolve into a balmy silence carried by the humid summer air and the occasional snivel, until Seungmin lifts his head back up, eyes puffy and red. 

“Sorry,” the younger mumbles as he haphazardly wipes at his eyes with a wrinkled sleeve. Minho merely quirks the corner of his mouth upwards.

Then the door opens, but instead of the expected medical aide, a familiar face steps into the room and Minho breathes an unintended sigh of solace. 

“Hyunjin,” he calls out lowly. 

The taller is dressed primly, as is usual, with his shoulder-length hair swept back charmingly into a ponytail that dresses down the formality of his pressed button up and pleated pants. Minho has never seen Hyunjin’s hair up, as the last time he had tried to do so days ago, it had been too short. His skin is like plastic in its dewy luster, and the well-groomed nature of his overall appearance gives color to the room. 

Seungmin immediately spins his head around, and the two seem to hold a silent conversation carried through the intensity of their eye contact before they both crack into equally enigmatic smiles. They meet in the middle, hugging each other tightly with strong and genuine emotion.

“Thanks for coming,” Seungmin says after they part, wincing as he rubs at a sore spot on his rib. Hyunjin grimaces as he peers at the probably bruised rib.

“Sorry,” he simpers apologetically, then gawks with concern at the other’s swollen face up close. “Hey, have you been crying?”

Seungmin just shakes his head in dismissal and they both turn their attention to Minho, who had been watching with endearment.

Hyunjin has no siblings and, along with a lack of parental support, has perhaps been one of the boys who had needed their company the most. At first, Minho wasn’t very fond of him due to his prudish image and overdramatic tendencies. After they had touched upon the subject of dance, however, they had found themselves melting into a mentor/mentee companionship like a fitted glove. Hyunjin was gifted, maybe a bit inexperienced or easily frustrated at first, but Minho had learned that simple encouragement and positive affirmation could bring about some of the best stage presence that he’s ever seen. In addition to Hyunjin being of the same age as Seungmin, Minho likes to think of him as the little brother that he enjoys teasing the most. 

“Hey, Jin,” Minho utters warmly.

Hyunjin beams, eyes mooning despite the sadness creasing between his combed brows. “Hey, hyung. How are you feeling?”

Minho shrugs. “I guess I could be worse. Still able to stuff tissues down your throat if I need to.”

Unamused but with a twinkle to his pitch, the taller replies, “I think I liked you better when you weren’t awake yet.”

“You visited while I was comatose? Are you trying to get on my good side to avoid eating tissues or are you lying? Seungmin, is he lying?”

The mentioned third party rolls his eyes. “He’s not lying, he’s been coming by almost every day.”

“Hey, of course I visited! Me and Innie have been making sure Seungminnie isn’t lonely.”

Minho narrows his eyes, and Hyunjin hides behind the youngest despite the restrictions that Minho’s injuries force upon him.

“Where is Innie anyways?” Seungmin muses, craning his head to peek out the door.

“Oh, he was on the phone so I went in ahead of him. He likes to walk around when he talks on the phone so I think he might get lost but…” 

Hyunjin shrugs, leading Seungmin to sigh and take leave to find their friend. “I’m glad you’re _his_ best friend and not _mine_.”

“Hey! He’ll live!” Hyunjins scoffs offendedly at the other’s retreating back. He grumbles unintelligently under his breath, sticking his hands into freshly-ironed trouser pockets. 

Minho, plenty used to their antics by now, only gives a quirked brow at Hyunjin’s feigned disgruntlement. “I didn’t raise you to let the maknae fend for himself.” The taller looks as if he’s about to disprove the statement, but they are both well-versed in the fact that Minho has probably provided him with more parental guidance than his actual parents ever could.

“Thanks, though,” Minho says softly, tenderly. “For keeping Seungmin company.”

Hyunjin looks happy, understanding the hidden sentiment behind the words, and nods as he situates himself in the vacated seat at the bedside. “You’re welcome.”

“You’ve been doing okay?” Minho turns his palm upwards and Hyunjin gratefully takes it in spite of his usual distaste for skinship.

The other gives a curt half shrug, playing with the pilling wrinkles of the bed sheets draped over the side of the cot. “I’ve been… busy, I guess.” The wrinkle between his neatly trimmed brows turns displeased. “With new jobs and gigs. I got through to the second round of castings for a new Dingo drama.”

Minho presses a comforting thumb to Hyunjin’s boney knuckle, the skin soft under his touch. The last time the other had mentioned anything about his work, it was a maddened rant about his parents going behind his back with applying him for castings after he had refused to do so willingly, ending with the defeated conclusion that he would rather comply with his parent’s wishes instead of being in the dark about what they plan out for his future. “That’s pretty big. I’m proud of you.”

The words are honest, and the reaction that it draws out is just as so. The dark hue of Hyunjin’s irises brim with gratitude and something more bitter sweet in color. 

“I—” The sentence catches in his throat, and he has to blink away the shine that layers his eyes. “Thank you. I really missed… you know. I’m just… I’m sorry that I wasn’t there.”

The apology seems a bit displaced, but Minho dismisses it to lighten the mood with a teasing, “Hey, no more crying today, you big baby. At least if I don’t make you eat the tissues, you’ll find another use for them.”

Hyunjin gives a wet chuckle and he finally meets Minho’s eyes. It goes unsaid how they are both deeply appreciative of each other’s company.

“Silver looks good on you,” the older comments offhandedly. “But I think the pink was suitable. Just make sure you don’t dye it too often.”

“Yeah, I don’t…” he begins to respond, until confusion flits across his smooth complexion. “Pink? You remember when I had that?”

And now, Minho becomes perplexed. Hyunjin had been freshly dyed with a blush pink head of hair only a week or two prior. They don’t get the chance to dwindle on it for much longer as Seungmin returns with the youngest in tow. 

“Minho-hyung,” Jeongin grins, the vibrant greens and blues of the bouquet in his clutch lighting up the dreary room. It’s wrapped prettily with cream parchment and a matching ribbon, a card stuck in between the plush petals.

“Hi, Innie,” Minho coos back. His eyes widen in surprise when he says, “You got your braces off! I thought they weren’t due until a couple more months.”

And then Jeongin’s smile falters, bewilderment replacing it. Minho blinks, and sweeps the room for illumination on the matter, only to see that both Seungmin and Hyunjin have similar expressions. 

“Uh,” the youngest punches out a stunted little laugh. “I haven’t had braces for almost, like, two years now?”

It takes a few seconds to process the words, but Minho is unable to comprehend that claim—he was almost positive that Jeongin had been wearing clear-banded braces the last time they had seen one another. 

The vivid recollection of clear blue skies kissing the ocean’s surface makes headway to the forefront of his mind. Their group of eight had gone on a whim in retaliation for Hyunjin’s parents forcing him into yet another brand deal and in celebration of Chan’s pay bonus at the restaurant—or maybe it was the music shop. It was Changbin’s family summer house, just one of the many, with vast glass windows that stretched the expanse of every room in its three stories, all in the seclusion of the family’s private white sand beach. 

“Chaotic” could be one word to describe the trip. Jeongin had even managed to lodge a chunk of candy into one of the brackets on his molar, and Felix had thrown away his respect for hygiene in favor of trying to pry the caramel out with his fingernail while Hyunjin had pretended to vomit and Seungmin proceeded to film the whole ordeal. 

It was, by far, one of the most enjoyable days that Minho has had in years—the youngests digging heels in warm sand while the rest were scrambling to prepare a decent meal made for eight but who could eat for a dozen, Chan calling out for help plating only to get distracted by his own childish tendencies, Changbin and Hyunjin swatting at each other over who gets to sit on the pink towel in front of the fire, and Jisung’s thigh pressed firmly against his own as they laugh giddily in response to their friends’ amusing behaviors. 

In an instant, a sharp throb consumes the back of his head, and Minho cries out in a startled pain. White noise rings in his ears and he feels his breathing becomes labored. The pain is so fierce that he barely registers the frantic hands attempting to soothe him. 

The affliction he endures knocks him off kilter, pulsing at the stitches in his skull. It tugs at his nerves and veins, urging him that something is wrong—but he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t _remember_.

Eventually, after a few teeth-gritting moments, it begins to dull, and he opens his eyes again, unable to recall when he had closed them or when he had even curled into himself. His breathing is shallow, fingers trembling, mind racing. It makes him feel frail, showing this side of him to not only his friends, but to Seungmin, who he has always been careful with when it came to dealing with his own breakdowns to better comfort his brother during his instead. 

When he looks up, he meets the worried gazes of his friends, and that of a nurse who had stumbled in upon hearing the commotion. 

“Hyung,” Seungmin whispers, cautious in his volume. “Hyung, what day is it?”

Still winded from the episode, Minho can only manage a feeble, “I don’t know.”

“Hyung, what—what month is it? What _year_ is it?”

“I—” The ache starts to return, and he bites down on his words. His younger brother puts a gentle hand on his face, thumbing at his cheek calmingly. After a few seconds of recomposure, Minho finally groans out, “It’s… August? August 2015.”

His shoulders heave, thoughts trying to unscramble themselves but this proves difficult as he takes in the baffled looks that are directed at him. The nurse even seems shocked, her red-tinted lips gaping, then hurrying out the room as she calls for a doctor. 

“Minho-hyung,” he hears, yet is unsure who said it in his hysteria. He assumes it to be Jeongin from the way his mouth is forming around unspoken words, seemingly unable to deliver what he wants to say.

Then, Seungmin grips at Minho’s shoulders, steadying him with a solemn and frightened stare. 

“Hyung, it’s—it’s June. It’s June 2017.”

Minho can’t feel his lungs expanding, the air getting impossibly stuffier as a handful of practitioners and medical aids rush in to promptly usher the boys away, much to their vocal dismay. He is then consumed by their prodding and all Minho wants to do is go back to that day on the beach.

  
  


+

  
  


Retrograde amnesia due to blunt force trauma to the memory-storage areas of his brain. 

It’s a concept that Minho has only seen on the television, something that he would have never thought would come to impact his own life—let alone take away his own memories. As demented as it may be, Minho wouldn’t have had many qualms against losing the ability to call back on particular years of his life, specifically those that had forced him out of a much-deserved childhood and into early maturity. 

But, those that he had lost were important. Minho can feel it even if he can’t remember it. 

Even so, the immense pain that blossoms in his skull every now and then keeps him from uncovering what he feels is missing. He’s figured it out by now that, though it might be occasional, it’s somehow triggered by seeking out the deeper parts of his subconscious for these memories, and this scares Minho.

“So, nothing from the last two years?” Jeongin parrots back.

The half-brothers give grave nods of affirmation. 

“Do you know how long it’ll take for them to, like, come back?”

They shake their heads. 

Jeongin slumps back in his seat, the sharp line of his jaw clenched. Minho still isn’t used to the way that the youngest has grown into his features, easily posing as the most masculine of the four. The muscle tee hangs somewhat loose on his lean body, exposing the fine tanned muscle of toned arms that end with wide palms and long fingers. His fox-like features are now less cute and more piercing in the way his cheekbones square hard enough to cut glass. Minho mentally kicks himself for pointing out that the lack of braces was the first thing he had noticed.

“The doctor said that there’s no telling when I’ll get them back—if I do at all,” Minho utters somberly. “And given our… ‘traumatic past,’ it won’t be easy to regain my memories because my brain might be, like, repressing them or something in order to protect itself. So… there’s even a chance that I won’t ever get them back.”

Hyunjin combs manicured nails through his now-disheveled silver locks. He’s been pacing the room since the medical staff had made themselves scarce, chewing at the cosmetic tint swiped across his bottom lip and fidgeting with the many pieces of jewelry on his person. 

Jeongin follows the movements, before the meters between them shrink enough to latch onto Hyunjin’s wrist, snapping the latter out of whatever unnerved trance he had been in. The youngest gently tugs at the thin wrist, silently imploring him with an intent look, and Hyunjin doesn’t give any indication on complying for a few seconds until he evidently caves in and takes a seat beside the other. His leg immediately begins to bounce with anxiety to which Seungmin sighs.

“At least he won’t really need to talk to the police,” Jeongin tries in order to shine a more positive light on the situation. Minho pulls the corners of his lips up; the youngest was still the same people-pleaser.

“Yeah, the doctor already explained to them the situation and they told me to let them know if hyung ever comes to remember what happened, so…,” the younger brother reveals. “The doctor also said that hyung would be able to leave in about two weeks if his head wound heals up enough to permit it.” This appears to appease Hyunjin’s nerves slightly from the way his shoulders loosen up ever so slightly.

“My mom said that you guys can stay for as long as you need,” Jeongin asserts. The question at the tip of Minho’s tongue doesn’t even have to leave his mouth as he continues, “Seungminnie-hyung has been staying at my house since everything happened. My mom already talked to the landlord for your old apartment and, especially since it’s kind of a crime scene now, she just kind of took him in since you guys can’t really go back. She emptied out the guest bedroom enough so that you could both stay with us.”

Minho looks to his brother for confirmation, speechless, and Seungmin gives half a shrug in return.

“Um, a-are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” Minho stutters in disbelief. “I mean, you’re already a family of five as is.”

“Are you kidding? My mom loves Seungmin so much that I don’t think she would let him leave even if you said ‘no.’”

Seungmin splits his mouth into a cheeky simper at the statement and Minho feels a sharp tug in his chest. The idea of a warm home with family dinners and clean, disinfected amenities stirs a fluttery pool in the pit of his stomach.

“I—… I don’t know what to say,” Minho says truthfully, lowly as if he is almost speaking to himself. 

Jeongin flashes a sincere, brace-less grin. “Just say ‘yes,’ or I’ll never hear the end of it from my mom.”

“They’ve been taking good care of me,” Seungmin adds. Minho gauges his countenance for any hints of simply attempting to lull the older into compliance to the notion, but he only finds sincerity in his smile, his two front teeth protruded in a way that both of them had inherited from their mother. 

With a heavy sigh and the equally authentic impressions of the others, Minho relents.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, the phrase falling from his lips more fragile than he had intended. It makes him grimace, even more so when Jeongin coos and drapes himself over Minho’s blanketed legs. Hyunjin follows suit, squawking in offense when the oldest chooses to kick at him, even making a visible effort to avoid hitting the youngest. 

The serious atmosphere dampens down to invite bubbling laughter, wisecracks, and a familiar feeling of home. 

  
  


+

  
  


The days go by as the season’s heat soaks deeper and more torrid, dragging along the hours where company is sparse. When Jeongin and Hyunjin do visit, however, Minho finds himself getting swept up in their shenanigans all too quickly. Their banter is easy, their time together passing as hurriedly as the nurses who come and go with his daily medicinal necessities. 

There is one instance though, on a particularly balmy Thursday afternoon, where Hyunjin arrives much later than he usually does, straight brows set low on his face and the smooth curve of his jawline tense with what Minho assumes is indignation or defeat. 

Jeongin seems to take note of his friend’s demeanor as soon as he steps within the confines of the hospital room, doughing out whatever skinship the other silently asks of him. In spite of the initial damper attitude, once they get back into their jovial repartee and Hyunjin begins to warm up to their mouthy quips, it becomes yet another sweltering summer day that wears on much too fast. 

Minho was only reminded of the despair that his friend had worn for that hour or so the next day when the taller had strode in, all eye smiles and a glisten of sweat on his temple, boasting about his new tattoo on his left tricep. His dog’s name is outlined by the lineart of a star, the skin around it flushed red under the plastic wrap. Along with the new stud piercing on the cartilage of his left ear, he looks a bit more like himself. As Jeongin and Seungmin voice their approval of their friend’s new body modifications, Minho observes earnestly.

“They’re very you,” he comments after contemplating his words carefully. “I bet you worked hard to pay for them yourself.”

Gratitude blinks into Hyunjin’s dark irises before his mouth is parting into a cheshire grin. It falls to a wounded gape after Seungmin jests that he should’ve saved up more to tattoo his face instead, and the room falls into yet another bout of obnoxiously loud hijinks. Their volume only grows louder and comical when a passing nurse opts to close their door in her passing. 

Despite the sense of comfort that their uproarious group of four had offered, Minho had still felt a bit empty. Maybe it was due to the hole left in his head and in his collection of memories, or maybe it was from the looming reality of the blood on his hands. But every time he tries to grasp for what he is unsure he yearns for, sickening feelings coil angrily in his stomach and pound at his skull, threatening to snatch away his consciousness, and lead him to deem it not worth the frightened look on Seungmin’s face when the suffering surfaces externally. 

The emptiness hollows out a cavern in his back, a spot where he can’t reach nor see. It’s during a rainy morning, right after the nurse has disinfected his stitches, that the cavity begins to fill as Seungmin straightens up in his chair with an astounded expression.

“Changbin-hyung!”

Minho darts his gaze towards the door to confirm his brother’s exclamation and there, idling in the doorway as he fiddles with the faded hem of his teeshirt, is Changbin. He seems broader, heavier in muscle weight from the girth of his neck and arms, and maybe a bit paler, but the brooding character of his piercing eyes is still the same even as they gleam with uncertainty.

Although he looks rigid in his stature, there’s a relief that seems to ease some of the tension from his posture once he sees the brothers are in one piece, pushing out a strained and brief show of teeth from stress-bitten lips.

“Hey,” Changbin nods. “I’m glad to see you’re both okay.”

Seungmin overcomes his initial shock quickly, though Minho still makes a mental note of it, and rises to march over to where Changbin is still floating by the door. At first, the latter looks alarmed at the sudden action, looking ready to take flight. However, as soon as the younger is wrapping his arms around him in a compassionate embrace, Changbin’s panic slowly melts into a cautious acceptance of the skinship. The way in which he grips at the thin cotton of Seungmin’s shirt appears like he longed for the touch, reluctant to let it slip away any time soon. 

Minho hears them whispering faintly to each other, only able to make out the sorrowful, regretful “I’m so sorry, Minnie, I’m so sorry.” 

Once they pull apart, and Seungmin playfully thumbs at Changbin’s tear-brimmed eyes, the latter steels himself. He suits back into his macho guise as he pushes away the younger’s clingy hands, even going as far as to raise a threatening fist that they all know won’t actually make contact with anything. Nonetheless, Seungmin retreats to his brother’s side with a skip in his step.

“What the hell have you been eating?” Minho asks. “You used to be a toothpick—Minnie, are you sure that’s the same cute, little Changbinnie?”

“Hey, I’m still cute!” their new company yawps. He even makes a show of poking his slimmed cheeks as he bats his eyes at the two. Minho barks out a hard laugh at the sight. Changbin is one the oldest, only younger to Chan and himself, but that was never an excuse to keep him from acting like he was the youngest of them all. He was always full of baby babble and making known of his self-proclaimed youthfulness. Minho can barely take away any difference in his behaviors despite the two-year gap in his recollection. Even so, Changbin’s much buffer appearance adds an extra comedic flair to his gimmick.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” the eldest deadpans. 

Seungmin rings in with another bout of laughter. “Wow, at first I almost didn’t recognize you but now I know for sure it’s still you.”

“How can you not recognize this cute face?! You’re just jealous you’re still so twiggy—that tee shirt is basically swallowing you!”

“At least I grew the last time we saw you. You look like you’re still the same height. You know Jeongin is, like, 170 centimeters now?”

“You—!” Changbin goes to lunge for Seungmin, who guffaws at the attack and groans in anguish once he’s caught in a stuffy-looking bear hug. 

“Hey, don’t break him,” is all Minho can add to the chaos. Changbin has always been one of the loudest, which is saying a lot considering the decibel levels reached with their usual group of four. “But hey—what do you mean? You guys haven’t seen each other for a while?”

Suddenly, the noisiness dims out and Changbin looks as if he’s been caught red-handed. He winces, putting distance between himself and the half-brothers. His eyes shift around the white tile floor like they’re searching for an answer.

“I, um. I heard what happened to you. About your amnesia. I guess you don’t really, uh, remember. Ah, of course you don’t…,” he sighs in frustration, rubbing at his nape. “I’ve just been busy. You know, with my family and all. My parents have been expecting me to start taking up the business seriously since I graduated and I don’t think I’ve seen everyone for maybe…?”

“Since winter last year,” Seungmin finishes for him. He looks pensive. 

Changbin moves his head down in a terse motion. “Yeah, since winter last year.”

A headache blossoms as Minho tries to attain any recollection of these facts, so he can only give a nod of understanding back. “Hey, things happen. But thanks for making your way back.” 

Changbin gives a tight but pleased smile then gestures to the room. “Sorry I couldn’t stop by earlier but, as soon as I heard about what happened and that you were here, I made sure to get you a nicer room.”

“Wait—you moved him? You’re the one who’s been—?” Seungmin trails off, evidently connecting the dots that the new information brings him.

“Well, my sister owns this hospital,” Changbin explains. “I’ve been helping with the billing department and I caught sight of your names so I’ve kind of been keeping an eye on you guys. I managed to get you guys a better room and I understand your financial situation so…,” he shrugs. “Don’t worry about paying for anything.”

Minho goggles in utter disbelief. “Are you serious?!”

“Hyung,” Seungmin has a similar look on his face. “To pay for a whole hospital bill is a bit much. Especially with Minho-hyung’s condition—we don’t even have insurance and I’m sure that everything has probably cost a fortune!”

“Like I said, my sister owns this hospital. And you guys know I have more cash to spend than what I know what to do with.”

There is validity in both points, but Minho still shakes his head profusely. “No way. That—that’s way too much, Binnie. I know that this might not be a big deal to you, but to us? I mean, I’m sure that bill isn’t something to scoff at. I might not have a lot to my name but I’ll figure it out. We still have the money left over from my parents, so I don’t want you to—”

“Okay, no,” Changbin cuts in. “First of all, you’re not using the remains of your parents’ will money just like that when my mom could probably spend the equivalent of your hospital bill in a shopping trip in Itaewon. Second of all—,” he puts up a defiant finger to halt the rebuttal that readied itself at the tip of Minho’s tongue, “—your bill is basically on the house and I’m not even really dishing out money since my sister knows that you guys are close friends of mine so she literally said not to worry about it. And _third_ of all, just—just let me make it all up to you.” His stern tone morphs into a desperation, his arms emphasizing this where they now hang limply at his sides. “It wasn’t fair of me to kind of just— _disappear_ without a word when everything was going to shit and our group was falling apart. For all the time that we lost together, as a whole, I just want to be able to make it up—so please just let me take care of you with what I have.”

In some of their more serious conversations during Hyunjin and Jeongin’s hospital visits, it had been insinuated that not all of their friends were residing in their neighborhood anymore. Though Changbin and Hyunjin received a more prestigious education in the further north part of their town, they all lived within suitable proximity to touch base with one another often enough - Jisung and Jeongin lived only a few blocks from each other, Chan housed himself and Felix by renting a small studio apartment on the opposite side of their school, and Minho and Seungmin were shacked up in an almost identical complex down the block from them. 

However, Jeongin had briefly mentioned that Chan and Felix had flown back to Australia for some reason, but the downcasted nature in which their names were spoken led to Minho leaving his plethora of questions for another time. He had no certainties of the whereabouts of Changbin until now and he still has yet to hear any mentions of Jisung. It worries him to no end although he forces himself to hush his concerns as his head becomes endangered of bursting with splitting pain during the times he ponders it.

Minho still has no context as to what had exactly happened to their unlikely group of eight, and he doesn’t know why Changbin is radiating a self-loathing that is so unfitting of his disposition. Even with these missing details, even if his friend’s regret and shame may not be completely baseless, Minho relents in arguing for the other’s sake of seeking redemption.

“Okay,” he says after Seungmin gives him a wary glance. “Tell your sister that we’re really grateful. And thanks, Bin. I… I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

The heaving of Changbin’s chest lightens up as he breathes out a long exhale through his nose. “It’s really not much but… but yeah, you’re welcome.” A silent _thank you for letting me do this_ goes unsaid from the content smile on his lips, but Minho knows he has always had trouble when it came to expressing his emotions upfront. 

Changbin is much better at showing how he feels rather than voicing them clearly, and that hasn’t changed even after the two years he’s apparently been away from the group, especially from the way he quietly clutches onto Hyunjin and Jeongin when they arrive later that same day while the two pepper him with sentiments of how much they had missed him. 

As Minho takes in their bigger batch of five, his heart pinches tightly. They’ve all grown and changed so much compared to the scraggly, pubescent teenagers that they used to be in what feels to be only last week, though it's a plausible development in the amount of time that has actually passed. His friends have all grown into themselves one way or another, whether it be the more angular lines of Jeongin’s face or the extra centimeters on Seungmin’s head. The first time he had shuffled out of his bed-ridden state with his younger brother’s assistance, Minho had cried out at the baffling realization that Seungmin had to bend over to shoulder his (hopefully) still heavier weight. 

It feels bittersweet because he’s proud to see them progress into new people—better people—but he was never able to prepare for this big of a change. It puts him in peril of becoming mentally consumed by his condition, which is why he has never considered disobeying the physicians who examine him even if it sometimes feels too invasive and foreign. 

For now, Minho takes comfort in the recurrent presence of his friends, though they feel incomplete and it still bites at the back of his mind as to why they all feel broken in more ways than one. 

He contemplates finally asking the big question to the group—a simple and blunt “What happened to us?” would suffice. But seeing how they have all been avoiding the subject with diligence, Minho definitively decides to take the entirety of his recovery one step and a time until it’s evident that his friends are ready to present to him the answers they know he wants. 

  
  


+

  
  


“I’ll be back here around 9:30 in the morning,” Seungmin says as he swings the worn strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Changbin-hyung is gonna drive us to his place first so he can give us some of his old clothes and since Jeongin’s parents aren’t going to be home until the afternoon.”

Minho nods, bone-tired from the last minute preparations for his hospital dismissal in the coming sunrise. His main medical practitioner had been pleased with how well his head wound was healing, offering the optimistic possibility of being on a guaranteed road to full recovery in the physical sense. 

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for his brain condition, and he was informed of the more realistic likelihood that there is no telling when or if his memories will return in the near future. It’s disturbing, knowing that these accomplished professionals have theorized he may never regain those two years lost to an attempted murder at the hands of his own uncle.

From the way he had overheard one plain-spoken nurse gossiping to one of the frequenting maids about his situation in the assumption that he was asleep, the pieces of the past wiped from his mind were probably so awful and terrifying that his subconscious was purposefully suppressing them in hopes of sparing Minho from the years of abuse he had suffered. And then they had tsked in pity over the sad patient in room 325 who had no home, no family, and no memory. 

And that’s why he’s laying in bed now, fully awake due to the excitement of finally getting out of this place where he can only stand so many woeful glances and treading doctors. His skin crawls at the way they treat him as if he’s fragile, or that he’s already shattered by the losses that life has dealt him with. 

But, Minho has learned too early in the shambles of his young adulthood that life is never truly fair and luck comes and goes to a very select few, and that he is not one of them.

Thinking back to the time spent with the boys, he eventually mulls over the idea that maybe he _is_ lucky. He had his friends to support him even through the unpredictable chain of misfortunes shackling them, along with his own improving health, and he feels especially in God’s favor at the fact that Seungmin is standing tall by his side, living and breathing and barely paying the physical price for his near-death experience. 

Be that as it may, Minho does not feel lucky in the sense that years of trauma have disappeared from his remembrance. Though they might be painful to hold, largely due to the conceptualization that he will need to re-experience traumas that his younger brother also shares, Minho has a strong belief that he _needs_ these memories back. As agonizing and ugly as they may be, the sharp pain that rings throughout his skull brings about the assumption that whatever is being blocked out is something of utmost importance. 

And so he sits up, stomach stirring in the anticipation of experiencing the outside world once more, in hopes of triggering what is blanketed deep within the recesses of his psyche. Minho glides over to the window in the far corner of the hospital room, the cool tile a pleasant relief from the weather’s prominent heat. 

The sky that awaits behind dense, plaster walls and bullet-proof plexiglass fills him with a tranquility that brims at his fingers when he touches them to the sturdy grain of the metal bars. 

Clouds stream past the luminosity of the half moon, misting the dots of white that glint and shimmer against a dark purple galaxy. The stark red of his bedside clock blinks well after midnight, basically into the morning. Minho should consider the consequences of his late night stargazing more seriously with an alarm set to blare in approximately five hours, but he has pulled worse all-nighters in the more demanding academic weeks of the semester. 

Besides, the night sky tonight appears boundless, promising, and skims the surface of something more personal. Inky blues and indigos and violets swirl fantastically overhead. The stars are enrapturing. 

Minho feels a ghost of a flutter behind his ribcage, his eyes gloss over with a sheen of sentiment, and he lets the night sweep him far away from the cruel reality that has pushed him ahead and away from who he once used to be.

+

Above them, once barren trees had begun to sprout the first tellings of the coming spring in the forms of tiny flower buds. Pastel pinks against chipping gray bark webbed across the dimming horizon, the sky a watercolor work of hazy oranges, fuchsias, and cyans. 

There was a mechanical snap to Minho’s left and he turned to see Seungmin craning over Hyunjin’s shoulder to observe the photo captured on his manual camera. They appeared awed by the image, which Minho understood once he later saw it uploaded to the blonde’s social media feed the next day. 

The weather had abandoned its recent nippy chill for a warmer breeze, perfect for Minho’s preferred aesthetic of thin tees under collared button ups and stretchy denims without the need for restricting under layers. Though autumn would always be his favorite season, as it housed his birthday month and the joys of Halloween frights and pranks, spring would most likely tail as a close second. The temperature edges just on the cusp of hot and cold, settling on a pleasant in-between that is suitable for spontaneous open-air outings. 

“I miss winter,” Jisung pouted. “Winter is the best season.”

If it wasn’t for the perfect warmth that fall and spring had to offer, Minho would settle for winter as his next favorite he supposes—strictly for the sake of winter break and the promise of Christmas pleasantries. 

“I think autumn is the best,” Minho retorted. “Winter is so cold. I can’t even take my phone out or my fingers will freeze off.”

“Then wear gloves.”

“Then how will I use my phone?”

“Touchscreen gloves.”

“You know some of those don’t even work. And they’re kind of annoying when typing, honestly. It feels weird.”

“You’re so high maintenance.”

“How is that—how the heck is that high maintenance?”

“It doesn’t have to just do with the gloves, you’re just high maintenance.”

Jisung let out a bright laugh as he was pulled flush against Minho’s side, the older hooking him in with a swift arm. He kept the laughter going as he was dragged down to the concrete roofing on which they sat on.

Owing to Chan’s good terms with the jazz-obsessed night guard and bribery involving the promising usage of his music shop employee discount, the boys were able to hang around a more secluded area of their run-down neighborhood. The storage building to the southeast corner of the school grounds provided a perfect haven to eight lounging teenage boys looking for a bit of a thrill. It stood two stories tall, mostly filled with extracurricular equipment and lab tools, and had a ladder along its bricked side that granted easy access to the flattened cement roof. The building stood a good distance away from the main entrance and was mostly circumferenced by empty sediment and backed with a thick grove of pine. 

Given these circumstances, the boys had no hesitation in blasting music through Changbin’s portable speaker while they enjoyed the warm zephyr of the approaching springtide. 

On their way down to a cushioned fall granted by one of the many fleece blankets laid around them, Jisung flailing limbs managed to knock over one of the empty bottles of soju by his feet and it completely missed the cotton fabric. Its lip hit the stone tile with a noisy clang, drawing out exaggerated shouts at the piercing noise. Minho couldn’t see who exactly they came from since he was too preoccupied in digging his fingers into Jisung’s sides and ignoring his giggling pleas to stop.

“Why are you so loud?!” Changbin screeched, throwing them an irritated glare over his shoulder from where he was playing go-stop with Chan and Jeongin. Felix peered confusedly over his other shoulder at his dealt hand in an unsuccessful attempt to understand the mechanics of the game. 

“Hyung, help me!” Jisung shrieked, but Changbin paid him no mind in favor of whining at Jeongin, who had just thrown a full bag of honey butter chips at the older’s head.

“Why are _you_ so loud?” he countered with a full smile stretched wide to show the clear bands of his braces. 

“Why are _you_ so mean?!” Changbin cried out while he reached over to punch at the youngest’s kneecap, effectively making him recoil in a pained stream of laughter. 

Seungmin took the opportunity to ambush Jeongin from behind and envelop him in a caging hug. “Hey, why don’t you cuddle me like that?” Changbin complained as Chan began to drag his cross-legged body over to join in on the skinship. Jeongin simply howled in a grinning anguish, unable to fend off the onslaught of brotherly affection once Changbin and Felix took a hold of his legs. 

Their rowdiness continued well into the evening, until the sun sank its way down into the landscape of thick evergreen trees and specks of white started to speckle in its wake. 

Snack wrappers and green-tinted bottles were shoved into convenience store bags and the moon was climbing well above the skyline by the time Minho’s lockscreen read 8:47PM. The days were steadily getting longer, giving rise to make the most of the mellow weather, but meant that the boys were even more exhausted by the time the undertone of night creatures began to sing their soft tunes. 

With slightly above average alcohol content levels and the coziness provided by their little sea of mismatched blankets, the boys had all made themselves snug in an entanglement of gangly limbs. Their conversations were more toned down, fitting of the calmed atmosphere, and jumped from different topics depending on whoever spoke up first about whatever came into their mind. 

Jisung, though, had chosen to speak to Minho more directly rather than join in on Felix and Chan’s debate as to whose mother made the best kimchi back in Sydney. It was a bit of a shame since the argument was backwards in the way that Chan was confident in Felix’s mom’s kitchen skills while the younger disagreed wholeheartedly, but Jisung was talking to him and him only, and he could never really ignore Jisung even if he tried.

“If you look close, you can see that some stars twinkle while some don’t,” he pointed excitedly at the stars above them. “That’s because those that aren’t twinkling are actually planets. But it’s really, really hard to tell which kinds of stars you’re looking at.”

Minho hummed in acknowledgment of the other’s newfound passion for astronomy and constellations. It was endearing to watch as he rambled on about the various bits of information that he had gathered, no doubt obtained from running out of nature documentaries to binge and letting his video streaming app take him to the next related option. 

There was a deviation in this interest that Minho took notice of. Usually, Jisung would just provide a few random recitations that he found the most intriguing from the videos that he watched, but the captivating wonder that flavored his intensity felt as if it was only just beginning to take root and bloom into something bigger.

“Even though our sun is pretty huge, it’s actually a dwarf star. There are other stars out there that are maybe fifty times bigger! And they actually tend to come in pairs. Usually stars will orbit around each other, which I thought was pretty interesting since it looks like each star out there is just by itself. But they come in pairs, like… like soulmates. Starmates! Isn’t that crazy? Stars have counterparts that they revolve around. And I think that it’s crazier that these constellations even _exist_. If you really think about it, these huge balls of gas that float millions of miles apart in outer space manage to still stick together to form these whole pictures. I mean, who knows what insane things happen in space—and against all odds, these stars remain part of a whole unit. It’s a bit poetic, really.” 

Minho would have usually inserted a side comment here and there but the soothing murmur of Jisung’s voice in his ear, in addition to the pleasant buzz of strawberry soju warming his skin, lulled him into occupying a comfortable silence. 

And the younger understood this, so he continued his spiel about the endlessness of space, giggling in triumph every time he managed to draw out an inebriated cackle from the older with an unexpected pun. Minho blamed the alcohol in his system for the heat that gathered in his face every time Jisung grazed touchy, petite fingers over his knobby wrists. 

After maybe fifteen minutes of their stargazing, and the lively chatter around them eased into faint whispers under the smooth vocals from whosever streaming app was hooked up to the speaker, Minho itched to check whether Jisung had fallen asleep in his rambling or had merely opted out for a comfortable peace and quiet after an excessive teaching about the variations in temperature between blue and red giants. 

He waited, patiently, until it had been a whole two songs since someone last uttered a word, then slowly turned his head to the right. 

Jisung’s eyes were buttoned closed, pink lips parted slightly in relaxation. His head was turned slightly so that it left only inches between their noses. The proximity allowed for Minho to catch better detail on the slope of his forehead where his bangs fell in an effortless charm and the slight jut of his plump bottom lip. He found himself entranced by the beauty marks that dotted his complexion, which was still on the fair side from the winter’s lack of outdoor activities, the moles reminding him of the very stars that the younger had been speaking of so fervidly moments prior. 

They’re nothing, however, compared to the ones that danced in Jisung’s eyes as they sleepily blinked open to lock gazes with a breathless Minho. These stars twinkled and glimmered and shone brighter than any of those that had inhabited the sky that night—or any night for that matter. 

An air of something heavy took root in the mere centimeters between them where Minho doesn’t know when he had shifted closer, so close that he was sure Jisung had heard his slight intake of breath at the moment the former had come to a dawning realization. 

He had fallen in love with Han Jisung. 

  
  
  
  
  


i.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading! comments and criticisms are more than welcome so feel free to write me ur thoughts :]
> 
> this was a very intense passion project based on different snippets of inspiration from here and there. i also looked back on a very classic fic during the writing process of this work that i might have subconsciously been inspired by, so check out my bookmarks for that masterpiece (u will know it when u see it heh)
> 
> chapters will be updated as soon as they are beta'd. I already have my outline down and will just be filling everything in, so i hope to not keep anyone waiting too long.
> 
> anyways, thank u again for sticking till the end and i hope to see u again!


	2. ex

“Did the doctor say anything else to you after I ran down before?” Seungmin questions as they step into the elevator. 

The arch of Minho’s brow twitches, reminded of blunt words that he has yet to fully process.

“You’re recovering at a great pace,” the doctor had said with a pleased tune. “Just make sure not to pull on the scarring too much, try not to do anything that will reopen it, try not to skip a day of medication, and come back if anything happens. Also—,” he taps his uncapped pen against the acrylic clipboard in his grip. “—I think that our theory on your condition still stands. After taking a look at some past cases, there’s a pretty good chance that you can regain your memories through the progress of your wound’s recovery and restimulation related to major aspects of those lost memories—but given the psychological and physical distresses of your particular situation, this might be much more difficult. Your subconscious might be heavily affecting the ability to recover from your amnesia. Memories will often come back as the wound of causation heals, but since we haven’t seen any… significant progress, that probability is a bit out of the picture. Just don’t try to force yourself to remember or it might end up doing you more harm than good.”

And then he gave an encouraging smile before turning his back without a second glance, Minho only one speck out of the dozens of patients that his day would most likely involve.

He wasn’t told anything that he hadn’t already been made aware of or hadn’t concluded for himself; nonetheless, the reiteration of the glum expectations for his condition still stings just the same. The discouragement of attempting to coerce his own rehabilitation only adds to his irritation.

Seungmin is looking at him expectantly while he leans against the cold railing of the elevator, body turned and arms hugging his sides tight as if bracing himself for another bout of unfortunate news. The persistent worried lines in his face have yet to alleviate since the day Minho had woken up.

“No,” he says. “Just told me to take it easy.”

A content hum reverberates in Seungmin’s throat, seemingly satisfied as he steps through the parting metal doors. Minho follows close behind as the two weave their way around wheelchaired patients and freshly painted hallway corners. The hospital is bustling in the early hours of the day, the atmosphere as stale as ever, but the scents of hand sanitizer and disinfectants have become less intrusive to Minho’s senses by now. 

Once they hit the main lobby, it feels like his world expands again. Narrow congested halls are replaced by an open space of polished oak floors and faux leather white seating areas, receptionists answering calls and inquiries where monitor beeps had wrung his eardrums dry. The automatic doors are in constant use, allowing the free flow of the outside breeze to drift into Minho’s lungs and settle happily on his skin. 

The rising sun is shining through the wide panels of glass lining towering window sills of the hospital entrance and it brings a lukewarm common ground between the sweltering heat and blasting air conditioning. Minho feels at peace and thrilled all at once, the promise of touching a world beyond hospital walls thrumming in his veins.

There’s a short-lived drop in his stomach as he glances towards the left and catches a trio of police officers milling about the help desk. They appear to be there on business from the puffing chests and upright posture. Blue and dark navy uniforms contrast against the pretty wood stain of their surroundings, the gold of their adornments almost tacky in their lack of luster.

Minho knows that they aren’t there for him—they might not even know who he is, yet the healing gash on the lower part of his skull tingles with the reminder of the actions committed that led him to this very moment. 

It unsettles him, the way that the officers’ handcuffs glint as they dangle from their waists, but Minho just keeps his head forward, leering past Seungmin’s shoulder to the automatic doors that beckon their liberation from prodding nurses and pitying stares. 

When he finally makes it outside, sneakers hitting the well-swept sidewalk and the full force of the summer sun kissing his skin, he convinces himself that everything will be alright. 

And he fully believes the words the moment he spots Changbin, Jeongin, and Hyunjin waving animatedly to them from a short way down the drop-off area. The tallest makes a grand show of gesturing to their ride with jazz hands, the attractive sheen of the silver paint matching his hair as both catch the light. Jeongin copies the motion and it looks like the duo is presenting Minho with some extravagant gift.

“Wow, that’s for me, right?” he jests as the five are within hearing range.

Changbin pulls a disgusted grimace. “I’m already buying you a new phone and now you want a whole car? Are you shameless now?”

“Well, I hope my new phone isn’t this tacky silver,” Minho deadpans as his eyes wash over the engraved detailing of the polished door handles, the same time Seungmin says, “You look so ugly like that.” 

Before Changbin can blabber any form of response, another car pulls up right in front of them, less luxurious and more practical in appearance. Minho observes the plenty of parking space alongside the curb as the vehicle parks. He barely has any time to voice his confusion before the passenger door opens and a body stumbles out to fly into his own.

“You scared the hell out of me!” Minho cries out as he staggers to keep his balance as Felix wraps his legs around the former’s hips. “I thought I was going to get mugged!”

There’s the applause of surprised and elated laughter from the crew, Chan stepping out more casually from the driver’s seat and making his way over to them. His dimples completely cave in when Hyunjin moves in to hug him, the oldest returning it with a firm and full grip. After managing to detach himself from Felix’s limbs and the younger choosing Seungmin as his next cuddle victim, Minho makes his way over to Chan with a lightness in his step.

With the addition of two more, their friend group seems fuller, more whole—better in that it’s more familiar, like it makes more sense. There’s still room for one, however, and the thought popping into the forefront of his consciousness brings back the irate pang in his head. He counts himself lucky that he can press his chin into Chan’s shoulder and steer his wince away from being seen.

He shifts his head over as he gives Chan’s broad back a brotherly pat since the other seems very reluctant to release him, and catches a glimpse of Changbin from his peripheral. 

Just like his initial arrival at the hospital a week prior, Changbin seems unsure, borderline afraid. A few feet keep him distanced from the others, a lone outlier in comparison to their communal excitement at the reunion. Minho surmises that his discomfort is in part of the self-proclaimed guilt over the absence from events that aren’t part of his recollection. 

But, his perception is sharpened from years of surviving thanks to a keen ability to pick up the most minor changes in one’s demeanor—it being one of the key factors in whether or not he and his brother evaded another drunken outburst in that ratty apartment—so the doubled severity of Changbin’s dismay upon fixing his shaken stare on Felix’s back is noticeable, to say the least. 

“We came as soon as we could,” Chan relents his strong hold on Minho’s person and places an anchored palm on the latter’s shoulder. Relief bleeds into his features the longer that they stay connected, as if he needs the physical touch to assure himself that Minho is there, alive and breathing. “Felix was begging to come earlier but he had to finish his last couple days of the school term.”

“Academics come first over my near-death experience,” Minho wisecracks.

It’s a joke in its entirety, but Chan’s jaw clenches and his pupils flicker with something that sours in Minho’s gut.

“We heard about what happened,” the older reveals lowly. “Seungminnie has been keeping us updated since your phone got smashed. I’m just—I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now but… I just want you to know that I’m always here for you, man. We’ll stay for as long as you need.”

Like a switch, the burden of seniority granted by Minho’s age amongst their friends is lightened, now shared by the more experienced guidance that Chan has always been inclined to provide. Despite their similarities in height, Minho feels impossibly small and momentarily lets the burn behind his eyes swell enough to verge into edging into his waterline, so he lets his head hang low as the fingers on his shoulder squeeze kindly.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Care is evident in Chan’s tone as he says, “We would’ve brought flowers, but Jeongin said that the last ones he brought gave you bad allergies.” 

Minho chuckles, because the flowers  _ did _ give him bad allergies even though he has never been allergic to anything before. The laugh goes almost unheard with the deafening shrieking from the younger boys behind him growing louder by the second.

Felix and Hyunjin are howling in glee at Seungmin’s disgruntlement with their grabbing hands, off-color English phrases being thrown amongst their mess of squabbling. Minho joins Jeongin on the sidelines to pose as another entertained onlooker.

Chan, however, makes a detour from the rest and approaches Changbin in the mayhem. The others are far too immersed in themselves to catch how the oldest advances slowly, carefully like he’s afraid that any sudden movements will scare a frightened animal. It’s understanding, seeing how Changbin stiffens, pupils wide and hands wringing in a clammy sweat. Chan raises his palms in a show of no ill intent, then says something that Minho isn’t able to make out from the under the roaring bustle of their friends, and Changbin finally unroots his feet from the pavement to relinquish his unease in Chan’s welcoming arms. The younger still appears strained in his bearings, even if Chan strokes his back ever so soothingly, acceptingly as if to say  _ it’s okay _ .

It’s an interaction that may not seem too thought-provoking to the naked eye but Minho feels the other boys will find it strange with their acute knowledge of each other’s behaviors. With this in mind, Minho observes them from the side, casting glances here and there in a way that won’t draw any attention to them, and inserting an additional provoking comment to rekindle the chaos when the boys begin to dim down.

He misses the moment when Chan leaves Changbin to waddle his way over to join the others. Seungmin lets out a downhearted noise once he spots yet another assailant coming his way, but it quickly bubbles into a laugh when the oldest steers his path to charge into Jeongin. The youngest squawks in betrayal as Minho pushes him forward in sacrifice, and the others pry themselves off of Seungmin in a silent truce to focus their unwanted affections on their new target.

Minho is the only one to reign back on participating as his injury has left everyone wary of rough-housing him, except for Changbin, who is still mulling over by the front of his car. He’s wiping a thumb over an imagined smudge on the hood, even though the silver coating is pristine in almost every way. They notice at the same time when Felix pulls back from the group and steps in front of Changbin. His back is turned in its entirety, so Minho can’t make out anything discernible from this angle. 

At first, he expects a similar show of reservation that Changbin had in seeing Chan, but he’s seemingly even more unsettled this time around. The shorter even takes half a step back before catching himself in the action, though he still appears as if he wants to do nothing more than flee. Felix halts his movements immediately as Changbin does the same.

Flushed winds comb through the dark strands of Changbin’s bangs to where Minho can see the fraught furrow of his brow, the pained scrunch of his cheeks. Sunlight cuts the clouds overhead to illuminate his features, the brunette hues of Felix’s hair contrasting against Changbin’s inky black. Nature is in full bloom this time of year, and it presents a lovely ambiance to shaded skies and warmed flurries of air. Be as it may, a sharpness prickles around the two that scratches at the wound in Minho’s head. 

He averts his gaze since, this time, the scene seems as if it isn’t meant for anyone’s eyes. Instead, he watches as Chan gestures widely with cutesy expressions leading Jeongin to recoil in repugnance. 

Then it clicks in Minho’s head; Chan and Felix had been drawing away attention from their interactions with Changbin. Whether it be for the sake of sparing the others from the awkward tension or to provide somewhat of a veil of privacy is still unbeknownst to him, but he understands either way.

The two Australian boys aren’t related by blood, only calling each other cousins from the close ties their families foster and for convenience in referring to their relationship. Even so, Minho would often cite them just as good as the brothers that he and Seungmin are from the way they work around each other so seamlessly. 

While he can’t actually see what is happening between Felix and Changbin at the moment, the discomfort on the older of the two’s face pinpricks at Minho’s gut. It’s not his place to interfere whatsoever, but given how much Changbin has done for him and Seungmin in the last couple weeks, he opts to give the guy a break and steps forward.

“Hey, you punks,” Minho interjects. His friends continue to ignore him, so he speaks up again with a slight whine to his outcry, “Hey, you punks! Let’s save all this for when we get to Changbin’s place. I want to lie down on something that someone hasn’t died in.”

He maneuvers his way around the others to tug on the passenger side door of Changbin’s car, effectively dispersing the mass of excitable teens to make way to their respective vehicles. 

Changbin throws Minho a solemn glance as he unlocks the doors of his car, ducking his head in as if to avoid the fact that the latter  _ knows _ that something is amiss. And Minho supposes that his scrutinizing tendencies are largely due to the fact that he might be analyzing his friends in search of familiarities—ones that they might have forgotten in their time apart. 

But Minho hasn’t forgotten and holds on to them as tight as he can.

“Nice ride,” Seungmin remarks, gliding his palm over the darkened leather interior. “I feel like I shouldn’t be touching anything.”

“You’re literally touching everything,” Jeongin titters.

“Put on your friggin’ seatbelts,” Changbin grumbles as he begins to pull out of the curb. He drives like it’s the most important thing in the universe, all concentration and trained hands on the gears. Minho can hear the quick clicks of metal in buckles behind him.

“Do the other two have the address?” he asks.

When Changbin fails to respond, Hyunjin does. “I just texted them to follow us because Felix said they didn’t know where to go in the group chat.”

Unknown to the backseat passengers, the air carries a thickness that makes Minho’s nose scrunch at its pungent taste. The car ride continues noisily with the rambunctious trio in the back, Changbin only speaking up to dismiss Seungmin’s interrogation of his silence with a claim of focusing behind the wheel being of the utmost importance. Minho adds to the conversation with an occasional yell or snide or questionable noise but finds himself more content with simply watching the softened greens and greys of the city zip past the window. 

If their odd circumstances were normal—if they were two years back in some sort of variation of this gathering, Minho would never have felt fulfilled with only watching. Back then, he would have jumped headfirst into whatever business was being discussed, whether it be the stresses of the coming school week or the clashing opinions of current chart-topping songs or even what they decided to eat for that day. The gratification of being included used to provoke him so adamantly and pulled him in to participate lest he risked missing out on whatever fun memories they were making. 

But these aren’t the same kids that he used to jeer at, these kids are not really kids anymore. They’ve matured in so many ways that shrink Minho down, like they’ve seen things that have broken them apart and mashed them back together where some pieces fit and some don’t anymore. Parts of them seem jagged or mismatched. Incompletion leaves them hazy images of their past selves. So Minho watches, because he has yet to rediscover these people as they are now.

If it was two years back, Seungmin would be observing in his place. He would be sitting back, arms propped to pillow his head against the vibrations of the car door, and sporting a lazy uptick on unworried lips. But now, he’s boisterous in his sarcasm and bolder in his statements. It’s so backward, like they’ve completely switched social identities, yet Minho finds a fuzziness sweep his worries away while he enjoys seeing Seungmin revel in the company of their friends. 

Minho can see how much his brother had missed this, so he just watches.

+

Changbin’s apartment building is as grand as it is overwhelming. 

The building pierces through the city skyline, looming tall and glassy dozens of stories overhead. Valet parking, polished stone water fountains, and neatly trimmed shrubbery speak volumes of the steep-pocketed tenants that reside inside. A doorman welcomes them in, a capitalist ring to his nasal tone as he bows whilst the group shuffles their way into the complex.

Similar to when he’d first cracked open crusted eyes in the hospital room, blanched white floods his vision, this time marbled in lustrous limestone and freshly waxed floors. Even the elevator is extravagant in size and detail. Minho feels out of balance, a sense of displacement keeping his steps careful and calculated. So when he tiptoes into Changbin’s apartment and catches sight of the worn-in dip carved into the leather couch, sneakers and loafers alike thrown haphazardly at the shoe rack in the foyer, and personal items scattered across the countertops, the abashment Minho had carried into the downstairs lobby is gladly left at the door. 

“Do you remember coming here?”

Minho swivels his head to Seungmin standing at his side. When he shakes his head in refutation, the younger nods, frown pursed in a pensive line. 

“I think the first time we all came here was… Channie hyung’s birthday? We had a little party here.” He lifts an accusatory finger at Minho, smile mischievous. “You broke Changbin hyung’s doorknob because you locked yourself in his room for who the fuck knows why.”

“Watch your mouth, you brat,” Minho pulls at his brother’s ear hard, drawing out an annoyed yelp. 

“Oh, I remember that!” chimes Jeongin. “Binbin hyung was so mad.”

“It’s a good thing I can’t remember. You’re so ugly when you’re mad.”

“Get out of my apartment,” Changbin yells petulantly as he fiddles with the platinum dials and buttons lining the massive stereo system at the far end of the living room. Chan watches his deft hands work with a peaked interest, only sparing the shorter a perturbed glance at the booming volume of his voice. 

“It looks the same as I remember,” Seungmin murmurs, scouring the perimeters. The dark browns in his eyes—the same ones that Minho has—mist over with a far-off sentiment, seemingly affected by his surroundings. Minho wishes he could picture the past in the room as Seungmin does.

“Here,” Felix calls out. Concentration pumps his lithe arms as he fluffs a large bean bag until he decides its shape suffices. It looks incredibly comfortable, the brown of the soft material somewhat uneven in its frequent use. “You used to always sit on this one.”

“It’s poopoo-colored,” Minho deadpans. He still flops onto the plush seat, unable to deny Felix satisfaction in his efforts. 

“You’re poopoo,” Chan singsongs. The eldest only takes his place besides Felix in the pilling gray loveseat against the wall once the rest of the boys have melded into their respective claimed seats. Like routine, they all drape themselves around the furniture and each other, Hyunjin swinging an arm around the back of the sofa behind Seungmin, the latter kicking socked feet on the glass coffee table as if he lives there himself. Changbin, albeit still tense, has also melted into a scratched up armchair and begun to trace lazy circles into the hide of the armrest while everyone drones into easy conversation.

Maybe an hour passes into flipping through different playlists and collecting snacks to circulate before Minho finds yet another excuse to contemplate his unease.

In the midst of debating girl group superiority, Felix is fixated on another lone bean bag, its solidary placement in the corner of the room and the faded wash on its wine red fabric only adding to its worn-down appearance. 

Something feels off about it, but Minho can’t bring himself to contemplate it further as the throbbing in between his ears grows angrier the longer the bean bag sits in his sight. When he turns back to Felix, though, the pain trickles down from his head to tug down the corners of his mouth and lap through his insides. 

The twinkle in the younger’s irises is dimmed by a dull melancholy. Etched into his expression is something so painfully sad and lost—decayed almost. It isn’t until Chan gives a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder does Felix break his stare. The eldest gives a smile and, though it’s pressed by an empathetic dejection, it seems to lift Felix from his fogged state. 

Before Minho can dwell on anything too long, Chan turns to the group with a sunny demeanor as they appear to finish their discussion.

“2NE1 beats out anybody else—but what else have you guys been up to? School is okay?” he asks.

“Oh, how the fuck did we forget 2NE1—”

“School? Are you my dad?”

“I think we’d all much rather find out about what you guys have been up to,” says Seungmin. “I’ve been stuck listening to these guys talk about themselves for weeks now.”

“Yeah, how’s the Aussie life?” Jeongin wiggles his thumb and pinky fingers out in the stereotypical surfer fashion.

“Honestly, I miss the snow,” Felix voices, earning a fervent nod in agreement from Chan. “It’s so hot there that it makes me kind of miss Korean weather.”

“You used to always complain about being cold,” Hyunjin asserts. “You wore long sleeves in the summer.”

“Yeah, okay, but have you been to Australia during the summer? Sometimes I can see the little waves of heat if you look at one place for too long.”

“Out of everything, you miss the snow the most? Guys, he missed the snow more than us,” Minho jabs. 

Felix gapes. “No, that’s not what I meant! I missed you guys the most!”

“You didn’t say that!” Minho yells back, though it has no bite and draws out entertained sounds from the others. “Okay, choose: did you miss us more or the desserts here?”

Confidence lines Felix’s features as he makes a move to answer until he registers the question. He looks down then, brows raised and lips pursed, and the room erupts into laughter. 

“You traitor,” Hyunjin howls and throws an accent pillow at the loveseat, though it misses its mark and lands on the thick carpet with a comedic tumble. 

“You—,” Changbin braces his hands against the armchair as if he’s going to make a move to lunge at Hyunjin, who laughs maniacally as he flails his hands in defense. “My pillows are worth more than your tattoos.”

Chan reaches to grab the weaponized pillow and lifts it towards Changbin. The latter blinks, eyes shifting briefly between the two on the loveseat, before tentatively opening his hands in silent permission to have the cushion tossed to him. Chan flings it softly, then uses it as a segway into a different topic.

“I’ve still been making music,” he admits warmly. “Maybe you can take a look at some of them and help me out?”

Minho knows Chan as well as he knows the others in the group—not as well as Felix does, but definitely better than Jeongin or Seungmin. He’s a good role model, an equally good musician, and an even better friend. All understanding and comfort in his actions with little to no self-intent in between the lines. Minho would often speak to Chan on matters about their group, like doting parents in their wonderfully dysfunctional family, so he perks up as he recognizes the sharpness in Chan’s eye and the mellow influx in his tone.

Changbin jerks his head to the side in contemplation. “Oh, yeah, that would be cool.” A shy simper etches into his mouth. “I’ve been making beats, too. Honestly, it’s been hard working by myself. I keep wondering what kind of input you would have.”

Chan dimpled with an accomplished flash of straight teeth. “Aw, you’ve been thinking about me?” 

A disgruntled huff kicks out from Changbin’s chest though his amused squint speaks differently. “You wish I did in that way. But I still have the studio room if you’re down some time.” The offer is hesitant but receives an enthusiastic nod.

“Dude, yeah!” Chan radiates a vibrant energy that bleeds warmth into the cool air of the apartment. “Yeah, let’s do it! I still have ‘For You’ on repeat when I’m feeling in a mood, honestly. That one always hits different. Your intro verse just—” He throws his whole back into Felix’s side, who shoves at him playfully, and makes a wide sound of appraisal while Changbin busts into a proud grin. Minho can see the wall built up so early this morning begin to fragment, brick by brick.

“Oh, I remember that song!” Hyunjin gasps. 

“I remember you cried when we all first listened to it,” Jeongin adds, leading the taller to glower at him with a curled scowl. 

Minho chimes in, “That’s not saying much, but I’m sure it’s a great song.”

“Ah, you don’t remember…?” Chan’s words are slow, cautious.

The slight throb makes itself known once more, dull enough to ignore. “I remember that you guys would talk about music but I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of your actual songs?” 

Seungmin sits up attentively, eyeing Chan and Changbin expectantly. “Why don’t you guys play it then? Since hyung hasn’t heard it and we haven’t for a while either.”

Suddenly, the two in question appear unsure of what Seungmin is asking of them. It’s a simple request, one that is sensible and ordinary, yet Chan has a stern set to his features. That face, Minho knows, tells him that Chan is displeased.

“Play it,” he finds himself saying. He meets the older’s reluctant leer with a surge of defiance, resolve, and maybe even desperation. Minho wants to know why his head is stinging a bit more intensely now. 

“Hey, you can’t go all shy on us now when you were just bragging about it,” he fixes his look onto Changbin now, knowing that the latter is more likely to cave into his demands. Momentary guilt prickles at Minho’s hands at how Changbin fidgets before nodding stiffly.

“Let me just… it’s on my laptop,” he mumbles as he rises to disappear down a dim hallway next to the barely-used kitchen, one of the few corridors that shouldn’t really be in a single-person apartment.

The room tastes airless despite the thrum of expensive ventilation systems, everyone seeming tight with what Minho believes is uncertainty. He can even hear the rush of blood hammering languidly in his chest. 

Seungmin shatters the silence. “This was the first song you guys ever completed, right?” 

Jaw taught and veiny hands clasped, Chan replies, “Yeah, I first started playing around with this particular song back in my last semester, and then we picked it back up around maybe May or April in 2015. We were kind of on and off with it but we finally finished it in… August, I think.”

The dates make sense, as Minho can vaguely recall mentions littered here and there of music production concepts he has near no clue about; debates on whether to add more reverb or gain or both, explanations on the importance of compressing audio tracks, handwritten melodies sung brightly that fluttered in his stomach, passionate ideas on the lyrical possibilities based on the moon and stars coming from heart-shaped smiles framed by round cheeks—

“That’s a pretty long time to stay on one song,” Seungmin comments. 

Chan hums in agreement. “We were stuck for a while because we always felt like there was something was missing—” He breaks into a proud grin then, clapping a hand on Felix’s shoulder to bring him in closer. “—and it turns out that that  _ something _ was Felix.”

“Ooh, Felix as the secret weapon,” Jeongin chirps. Changbin ruffles the youngest’s hair on his way back to his armchair with a laptop in hand. 

Regardless of fixing a bashful gaze at his socked feet, Felix glows at the compliments. “I mean, it was only me saying ‘hey’ and you can’t even really tell it was me.”

“Even the smallest parts can make the biggest difference,” Chan shoots back as he pinches at the other’s freckled cheek just beneath happy eye crinkles.

“Lix looked like he was going to jump out of his seat despite it only being a couple reverbed adlibs,” Changbin jokes, fond as he continues to click at his mousepad. Felix, though he doesn’t turn his head to acknowledge the remark, allows a more demure smile to settle onto his face. “Oh, I found it! Wait—is this the right one? Oh, yeah, I got it.” Changbin carries the laptop over to his stereo system, plugging in a cable and clicking at a few more pop-ups on his screen before their current R&B playlist stops mid-chorus. A cymbal fades in to a beat drop and Changbin’s gruff voice is chopping through the air with a hard-hitting rap over a pleasant upbeat backtrack. 

While being nowhere near an expert in musical production, Minho can still give kudos where it’s due from the smooth blend of synthesized bass, acoustic guitar, and shaker sounds. He finds himself swaying his body along to the rhythm, shoulders popping at the distinct beats in habit of his years enamored by freestyle dance. The others seem equally content with the flow of the song, even clapping for Felix when he voices over his short adlibs amid Chan’s chorus vocals.

The music sinks deep into Minho’s skin, hums into his bones, irons out everything twisted up inside. He had been weighed by a thousand and one anxieties from the moment he had first awoken to that washed-out dullness of the hospital room and the dreadful news of what had come to the remnants of his broken family. 

But now, as he takes in the sight of the cheery faces molded by each other’s company, he feels the best he has felt in too long time, unable to keep himself from drifting away in the pleasant cadence of laughter and song. He lets himself let go of his worries—of the nagging in the back of his head at the unpredictability that the future holds for the orphaned brothers, of the emptiness where the coming scar in his skull has stolen a chunk of his life from him, and about the persistent pit in his stomach that screams at the loss of something he isn’t sure of. 

But soon the chorus ends. And Minho stills. 

His every movement yields completely, no longer pliable to well-knit tempo or his friends’ reactions, and his cheeks deflate as his chest fills with emotion. 

Jisung’s voice, low and autotuned, builds up into a passionate verse that has Minho reeling back in time, back to sunny spring days on the school storage roof and nights under the stars. 

The room falls quiet, only Jisung’s inspirational words dancing through their ears and bouncing off Minho’s shaking fingertips. His part is maybe less than a minute, but the seconds stretch long and careworn into what feels like hours, hours to days to months that Minho wishes would never end. 

Clenching around the nothingness in his grip, Minho blinks once, twice slowly, focus gluing to the beige and grey of the carpet in avoidance. He keeps it there even as the chorus returns with a climbing vigor because he doesn’t want the others to see the pricking at the corners of his eyes or the shine to their usual darkness. 

Then the bridge closes off with Jisung’s haunting and bright vocals, a repeated English phrase that tickles at Minho’s recollection of winter finals study sessions and an endearing propensity of mumbled singing in the midst of concentration. 

Smooth notes tide over the sandy feeling in his ears. They weigh heavy on his lungs and leave him spiraling for more—more  _ time _ as the chorus picks up again and the song comes to an end.

A swelling catches at Minho’s throat, balled up and bottled. It threatens to spill from where teeth press hard into bitten lips, but he refuses to relinquish whatever peace they had all worked so hard to muster from the ashes. There’s no pounding in his head, no seething pain, only a menacing pressure in his lungs that threatens to crush behind his ribcage.

He regrets his request to play the song now; the past couple weeks, Minho had been convinced that the boys had been tiptoeing around the very events from his absent past all for his sake, but as he becomes overly aware of the thick dispiritedness that congests the air, he understands now that it might have been for their own sanities as much as his own. 

“We wrote that for you guys,” Chan rasps thickly. “Because we all had our own problems, our own doubts about ourselves, but…,” he looks soft, pleased even, “We all believed in each other. So we wrote this in dedication to that—in dedication to our dedication to each other.”

Felix smiles at the cheesy reiteration and the two turn to each other, a silent understanding easing between them. The younger contends, “Now that I think about it, I think the real ‘something’ that you guys needed to finish it was probably our group.”

Chan’s forehead wrinkles at the idea, then his dimples dip hollow as Felix’s pleased grin becomes infectious. They only falter once Hyunjin alerts the room of the tears running through his foundation with a hiccuped sniffle.

“Geez,” Seungmin gawks in disbelief when Hyunjin moves to bury his dampened face into the former’s shoulder, who pushes him an arm’s length away.

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin snivels. “I’m just really grateful for you guys being here now.”

A happy, pitiful chuckle erupts from between the more prominent sobs, and Minho is beyond grateful that the shared sentiment was voiced.

“It’s good to see you’re still the biggest crybaby out of the group—all this change has got my neck broken so that’s the same is comforting,” he sighs as he passes a box of tissues from the coffee table to Hyunjin, who gives a choked laugh and gratefully snatches the box. 

Jeongin, comforting and full-cheeked, wraps his long arms around Hyunjin’s torso to draw him into a big hug. Chan flies off his seat with Felix tailing close behind to join in on the growing cuddle fest on the sofa.

Minho throws caution to the wind then, grabbing Changbin’s reluctant wrist and interrupting the shorter’s complaint about breaking his well-loved couch to flop down on top of his brother and the rest of the boys. 

Once again, they drown the world out and minutes of cackling excitement turn to hours until they creep into the afternoon. Through the blackout curtains, pillars of concrete and plasters kiss the cyan sky and blend into each other in the daylight. Their blocked edges remind Minho of the Jenga game that Felix would beg them to play, and perhaps he would still do the same if it were to be brought up in passing. 

A single stream of sunlight streaks only a few inches to Minho’s left. He reaches out a limp palm to bask in its warmth and watches as the dust pirouettes under the yellow glow. He pays no attention to the movie they’ve put on the big screen propped over the eggshell fireplace, instead zoning in on the way his fingertips can never quite catch the feathered particles in the light. Before he realizes it, they’re on the credits of their second animated film when they decide to order food.

“We’re absolutely getting chicken and I’ll arm wrestle any of you that says no,” Chan declares from where he sits against the couch between Hyunjin’s long legs.

“I might say no just to see if I can beat you in arm wrestling then,” Changbin rags. “Also I’m paying, so I get to have the final say in what we eat.”

Chan groans in distress. “Wait—but I literally haven’t had authentic Korean fried chicken since we left!”

“You really think I’ll win that easily?”

“I don’t know but you look like you doubled in muscle the last time I saw you!”

Changbin doesn’t fight the proud rise of his cheeks. “I’ll still order the chicken! I just want to see if I can beat you!”

“Why did you guys leave anyway?”

Chan whips his head behind him so fast that Minho flinches as if he could feel the whiplash himself. Jeongin is eyeing the eldest, accent pillow held captive to his chest and shrinking into himself; instead of the coming-of-age man he is today, Minho sees the small boy that they let tag along in their high school endeavors two years ago. 

“I don’t think you guys ever really gave an explanation,” Jeongin continues, raising a nervous palm in reassurance before adding, “Only if you guys want to talk about it. I was just… It was so sudden…”

Chan skims the room carefully, everyone wearing similar expressions to match Jeongin’s unsettled curiosity, to finally land on Felix. The boy looks stunned, as if the question was never truly expected to be materialized out loud. Freckled skin pulls taut over high cheekbones and under wide doe eyes.

“Ah,” Chan begins casually. “It was… there were some things going on back home. It was also getting harder to afford to live here with just the two of us by ourselves and I didn’t want to just take my parents’ money like that so moving back was the most sensible option at that time.”

The younger boys piled on the sofa all give understanding gestures in soft tones.

“Hyung,” Felix murmurs, and Chan meets his sad stare with an odd tension in his jaw. “I don’t want to lie to them.”

Alarms ring in Minho’s head, distant but blaring, gathering sweat in the creases of his palms. Chan seems surprised, then doubtful, and finally resigned as Felix’s features remain set to a resolve of some sort. The older slumps his back into the seat cushion behind him but his wariness never relents.

“What do you mean?” Hyunjin asks.

Felix visibly readies himself for the supposed truth he’s been harboring. He lets a heavy sigh through his nose and speaks, “I didn’t want to tell you guys because I know that you would’ve all been really upset but I just felt kind of guilty about not being honest. Um,” he winces, “Around the end of September, some classmates saw me out on a date.”

He pauses, so Hyunjin interjects with an astonished, “You were seeing someone?!”

“Well,” Felix quirks his mouth up, but the flutter of his lashes is sad. “Yeah, I was seeing someone. And it was… actually, it was another boy.”

Jeongin and Hyunjin both grunt out noises of utter surprise. The youngest utters, “Lix, I didn’t know you were gay.” He then quickly shakes his hands in a frenzy after Hyunjin elbows him at the implication of his tone. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it! I really don’t care—one of my good friends in school is gay so it’s no big deal to me. I just didn’t know is all.”

His enthusiasm elicits a more amused smile from Felix. “I know that you guys wouldn’t really care, I just never really got around to saying it back then. Honestly, I wasn’t 100% sure about my… my preferences for a long time but I can now proudly tell you guys that I am bisexual.”

Jeongin reaches over with a knowingly awkward high five to add levity to the situation, which Felix gladly accepts with a full-bellied cackle accompanied by Hyunjin’s own. 

The confession is met by good intentions and appraisals for his bravery, but the words seep deep into the darkest recesses of Minho’s brain. They filter through his hands like rain and teeter over the edge of a pool that he has been keeping at bay for who knows how long. As he bathes in the relieved glow of Felix’s giant smile, Minho wonders if he could also have that one day. If he could be brave, or even honest. Maybe today could be the day, so he opens his mouth.

“Are we really surprised? Does this surprise anyone? He binged all of Seo Inguk’s dramas once because he ‘was an amazing actor’ after seeing that K.Will music video.”

Like Changbin, Minho sucks at emotions. 

“Hey, he still  _ is _ an amazing actor! A-and he also knows martial arts and stuff so I could relate to him!” Felix sputters over the rising laughter in the room.

Seungmin brings a fist to his mouth then, his horrified realization painting the room quiet. “But the other kids in your class… They saw you guys.”

“Ah,” Felix falters back into an air of detachment. “Yeah. We were out and… I mean, we were always careful, you know? We never really did PDA since it’s risky but we were celebrating my birthday that day and… I guess it was kind of my fault because I wanted to be a little selfish that day. I kept using my birthday as an excuse to get away with things he wouldn’t usually go along with—but he was right. He kept telling me that we should be more careful and he was absolutely right because l-later that day, uh… someone had sent photos of us to our other classmates. And from there…,” he tilts his head and shrugs, “I knew that everybody knew from the second I walked into class that Monday. And they aren’t like you guys. They… yeah.”

Anger shakes Minho’s clenched fist on his lap. “They’re fucking idiots. Seungminnie, you didn’t know about this? Weren’t you in his classes?”

Seungmin shakes his head. “I’m in honors class so we have a completely different schedule and floor. And we don’t ever use our class group chat for anything besides schoolwork.”

“That’s why you left?” Jeongin whispers. He looks ready to cry, and the ire in Minho’s veins boils hotter. 

Through his bangs, there’s something akin to acceptance bleeding from Felix’s eyes and drooping at his shoulders, and Minho  _ hates _ it. “Some of the kids seemed to not care, or forgot about it after enough days had passed. But some kids would mess with my things. They, um… called me names that weren’t so nice. And sometimes they’d even catch me when I was by myself and…” 

An ugly feeling curls in Minho’s stomach as fear lights the flecks of brown through Felix’s lashes. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to want to finish the sentence, though its implications hang heavy in the air. 

“Well, what about the other guy?” Hyunjin is almost vibrating out of his seat in anticipation.

“He, um,” Felix starts, gripping his forearms in an anxious fit. “His face wasn’t in the picture so no one knew who he was.” 

Minho sucks in a breath between gritted teeth. “And he got off scot-free while you had to put up with all that bullshit? At least tell me that you told me who he was back then so I could’ve punched him in the face a few times.” The remark would have usually pulled out a laugh or two from the others if it weren’t for the genuine venom he spits. 

Felix simply forces a twitchy upturn of his lips as he replies, “No, no one knows, even you guys.”

The statement is somewhat false, as Minho is sure that Chan knows from the way he keeps his gaze burned into the polished wood legs of the coffee table inches in front of him, brows set deep and broad hands clasped tensely—but it’s Chan so, of course, he knows. 

“I mean, I understand why he didn’t say anything, though,” continues Felix, quieter. “It was hard, you know? Having everyone treat me like that and all was awful, but I’m glad that he didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t want him to go through what I went through. So… I understand. I do. I really do.” The last statement is so earnest in the way it falls from Felix’s lips that it feels more like a confession than anything else, as if the person in question is standing in place of the ground his eyes are boring into. 

So when Changbin flips over the side table beside him, Minho fits the pieces together. 

“Hyung, what the fuck?!” Jeongin’s potty mouth might have been reprimanded if not for the chipped pieces of marble from the tabletop and books scattered on the hardwood floor. 

Changbin is quaking with anger, palms pressed hard against his face as he struggles to control his breathing. “Lix, you—” He growls in frustration as he shoots up from his seat and takes a few brisk steps away from the group. The prominent muscles in his back heave and roll waves of agitation to coat the walls.

Some very tense and shaken seconds pass before Minho can’t take it anymore.

“Seo Changbin, are you insane?!” From the outskirts of his vision, Minho can see how Hyunjin has thrown a protective arm over Jeongin, though he digs his fingers into Chan’s shirt. His own fingers twitch to reach over and feel for Seungmin’s presence.

“Yeah,” Changbin spins around and Minho’s soles flatten on the carpet in case he needs to get up. “Yeah, I must be insane. No—I  _ know _ I’m insane because—”

“Stop.”

Felix is standing now. He looks far from scared while his words drip like teardrops. “Hyung, please let me talk.”

“You said enough,” Changbin seethes. “I don’t need to hear any more bullshit like that coming out of your mouth.” 

Undeterred by the viciousness of the comment, Felix steps closer. “It’s not bullshit. I would never lie to you.”

There is nothing but sheer honesty in the way he whispers and the anger once setting Changbin ablaze is now watered down to reveal a more genuine, crippling pain. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” he scoffs. “Which is why this is so fucking stupid. You didn’t deserve any of that. You—you’re  _ you. _ You’re all kind-heartedness and being honest and caring a-and you’re everything that people want in their lives but I  _ ruined _ you.”

Felix’s face wrinkles and his lip quivers. “Hyung—”

“I told you that I would never leave your side—that we would be together forever, whether it was as friends or as  _ us _ —but when you needed me the most I just fucking left you. I left you to suffer all by yourself because I was too much of a piece of shit to stand up for us. And you should hate me—”

“Don’t say that,” Felix interjects, and something fiery is burning in his breath now. 

“You should fucking hate me because I ran away like a coward. I lied to you and I left you and I never turned back because I couldn’t face everyone knowing that I was the reason you left. Knowing I was the reason our whole lives were falling apart—I ruined your  _ life _ !”

“You didn’t!”

“You had to fucking leave the goddamn country! And it was my fault! Why don’t you just say you hate me—Why can’t you hate me?! Why couldn’t you just tell everyone that it was me in those pictures? You could’ve done it so easily but you’re too good for me, Lix—and I should’ve been the one whose life got ruined because I’m selfish and stupid and awful—”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Felix cries out. The tears that brimmed his eyes have fallen now, cutting lines through the pools of angry red muddying his complexion. “You’re not any of those things! You’re not terrible f-for—for being human, hyung. You had so much on your plate already with your family business and your parents pressuring you to do so much, so I understand why you were scared to have your image ruined—” Changbin lets out a watery noise like he’s been punched in the gut. “Please don’t tell me to hate you because that hurts more than  _ any _ of the things that happened to me. It fucking hurts because you  _ know _ that saying those things will make me upset—and I know that you’re just trying to make me upset at you, so fucking stop it.” 

The last few syllables crumple on Felix’s tongue and his footsteps on the floor sear the air as his sobbing echoes down one of the hallways. A door rips open and slams shut in the distance.

What feels like decades pass in the suffocating silence that fills the crevices between the floorboards. Changbin has a completely empty expression now, mouth slack and pupils devoid of their usual spark. 

“Bin…,” Chan slowly lifts from the ground and drifts over to the shorter, his hands inkling up to tap the pads of his fingers on tremblings forearms. He guides Changbin back into his armchair before kneeling down in front of him. “You’re okay, Bin. He’ll be okay. You know that.”

Changbin looks like a hollow shell, tired and as if his will to fight had been swept up in the whirlwind of Felix’s quick escape. It’s terrifying, more so than seeing him break the table or scream with an untamed fury—but the facade breaks as light glimmers at his waterline.

“What did I do?” he whispers in a breath of disbelief. “What’s wrong with me? Why did I do that?” The life drains from his paling face and seeps into the rug beneath his slippers. 

“Bin,” Chan reprises a bit louder. Though Changbin doesn’t meet his gaze, he continues, “I know you must be going through a lot in your head right now, but you have to understand—you can’t just tell Felix how he should feel. If he wants to be angry and hate you, then you have to come to terms with that, but if he wants to forgive you then you need to make amends with that, too.”

Tears fall—one then two, then four—to stain Changbin’s sunken cheeks the second his eyes finally shift down to meet Chan’s own. The older must count it as a win, because the smile he puts on is somewhat proud, and even more encouraging.

“Just give him a few minutes to cool down, then maybe you guys can talk it out.”

With that, Chan gives one last reassuring pat to Changbin’s knee before he rises from the ground and makes a move to gather his things. On impulse, Minho begins to do the same and the rest follow their example.

“M-my mom won’t mind if we’re a little early in getting to my house,” Jeongin stammers like he’s unsure if he should speak again. 

“I’ll drive us then,” Chan decides.

The group files out one by one, each giving their own physical forms of goodbye to Changbin’s sagging body. Minho is the last in line, and all the distaste for the younger’s initial outburst has completely dissipated into a timid pity. 

He doesn’t know how to feel. They’re both his friends, people that he would give life and limb for if he needed to, and there’s no taking sides in these kinds of circumstances. It’s complicated in the way where their relationship—or whatever it was that they had—doesn’t directly involve him or the others, yet they all still feel an inclination to mend whatever was being torn apart between them. 

Minho isn’t like Chan, who can give helpful insight without being too overbearing, or Hyunjin, who has an amazing sense of empathy for others, or Seungmin, who is level-headed in the sense that he can see a situation from all types of different angles. So all Minho can offer is a lingering touch to Changbin’s shoulder, and then he’s out the door.

When he spares one last glance from the building hallway, Changbin’s hands grip at his dark hair and his figure is almost convulsing in silent sobs. 

The apartment door clicks and beeps as Minho finally shuts it closed, knuckles almost bloodless from his fixed grip on the stainless steel. He wonders then if he will have to see his friends fall apart all over again. 

  
  
  
  
  


ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading chapter 2 ! all of ur wonderful feedback and comments have really made this much more of an enjoyable experience for me to write this, so i would just like to thank each and every one of u that has encouraged me to keep going. it's an honor to be able to be a part of ur day just through this piece.  
> I've been looking forward to this chapter since it's one of the more backstory heavy ones. sorry for the angst but, a lot of times, discovering the truth is painful :,] more will be revealed as the story progresses so hold on tight !  
> i hope to see u next chapter since it's gonna be a whammy eheh...  
> stay safe out there friends :]


	3. voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: harsh anxiety attacks  
> stay safe my friends!

It was Jisung who brought them together.

Maybe he knew that they all needed somewhere to go to—somewhere to _belong_ —or maybe fate had a funny way of working through that labyrinth of a head on Jisung’s shoulders. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was destiny. Maybe it just happened for no good reason. Whatever it was or wasn’t, it was because of Jisung.

Before the snowy first months of 2015, the eight of them were comparable to those stars that Jisung spoke of; paired off in small groups that only orbited amongst themselves. Minho had only ever found himself with Seungmin, and vice versa, because getting close to people meant questions that they weren’t really able to answer. It meant suspicion and prying, which threatened them with the possibility of being pulled from their uncle’s apartment and, in turn, maybe away from each other in the hellhole that was the foster care system. It had been an optimistic possibility in the beginning, but they were good-looking kids, talented kids who would be desired by adults that might not have room for them both. So they stuck to themselves.

That is, until Jisung came and cradled them into his tender grip, molding them together like the gravitational pull that takes stars and makes them into galaxies. 

Minho was the last of the lot to be introduced. In spite of their habits in keeping to themselves, Seungmin’s first year into high school had brought about a big change. He had been staying out later than normal, coming back to the apartment with a more noticeable skip to his stride and a glow to his smile that Minho hadn’t seen since before they had moved. Thick layers of fondness coated his recountings of two classmates he’d met in the music club at the start of the semester, one whose freckles were as charming as his sunny attitude and another who liked to test Seungmin’s patience with his boisterous teasing cranked out from rounded cheeks. 

It was relieving, to see some of the childish nature bleed back into his younger brother’s personality, but it also left a conflicting stream of thoughts that held his tongue on the matter. On one hand, Seungmin undoubtedly deserved the kind of happiness that only friendships outside blood-relation could provide. On the other hand, these new companions might not have been able to understand or handle the terrifying reality behind why Seungmin tried to stay out of the apartment for as long as possible or why he never brought up the topic of homelife in passing conversations. 

But, as it turned out, Minho didn’t need to worry. 

On one of their weekends without extracurricular commitments, Seungmin had somehow managed to convince him to meet these new friends of his. The initial reluctance to go through awkward introductions was easily outweighed by his parental instinct to feel out what kinds of people Seungmin was spending his time with, so he had given in without much of a fight. It was a surprise, however, to walk into the quaint little home food restaurant and not see only two boys, but six.

They had welcomed Minho into their little posse, the more youthful faces at the table practically vibrating with excitement at another upperclassman in their presence. He had assumed that meeting them would have felt forced, like a formality that just needed to be done for the sake of proper etiquette. Yet, there was a cozy flavor to their warm smiles and gestures that had Minho hooked in, line and sinker.

From the start, he could tell that Chan was the obvious parental figure of the group. His exasperated yet enamored surveillance of their shenanigans curled in Minho’s chest, because he knew what it was like to look at someone like that, to look at Seungmin like that. And so Minho initially drifted to him first, carrying on a conversation based on Chan’s plans since he had just graduated and giving advice on how to handle the academic burdens of being a third year.

Though it became increasingly more difficult to focus on their discussion at hand when the scrawny, chubby-cheeked boy on the eldest’s left had been throwing heated glances his way that were most likely intended to be inconspicuous. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so distracting in other circumstances, but the intrigue that was washing over Minho was so buffeting that he had almost cut off his chat with Chan—no matter how rude it might have been—in order to find out what the kid’s problem even was. 

Thankfully, he didn’t need to worry over caving into an uncalled-for outburst for much longer as Chan began to explain how he had been strung into their group only a few months prior. He had met Changbin first, whom Minho was surprised to find out was barely a year younger than himself despite the babyish tones he was constantly throwing about the table. The two had become fast friends as the younger had frequented the music tech shop where Chan was employed, bonding over a love of producing and eventually going on to make music together with the large array of equipment available at Changbin’s disposal thanks to his parents’ rather large allowance. It was a charming story, perhaps something out of those American films that Seungmin liked to binge, and Minho’s engrossment had peaked when Chan looped his arm around the boy to his left and practically preened as he boasted about how _this kid_ was the one who had lead made their little family happen.

The boy—Jisung—had grinned back with a euphoric melody of a laugh. He tried to draw away the flush coloring the baby fat in his face by arrogantly claiming that the reason that _all_ of them were here was his doing. Minho immediately shot back that he wasn’t too sure of the validity in that statement, almost regretting his lack of filter in terms of his eccentric humor until he caught the playful spark in Jisung’s deep brown irises as they crackled brighter, like lightning ripping through the aromatic atmosphere of the restaurant. 

Lively banter evolved into a shared laugh over tricking Chan into eating a spoonful of Jisung’s spicy entree, and Minho felt like something was fitting into place after being gone for far too long.

Then, he had seen a more genuine side to Jisung’s character, as Seungmin began to elaborate on how his previous declaration was actually completely true—Jisung was the primary common factor between them all. He had met Chan and Changbin after ogling the music shop a handful of times, where the former had eventually invited him in and successfully pried out his common passion for music-making following a few tried minutes of digging under his initial shy exterior. 

Minho learned that two of the younger boys at the far end of the table, Hyunjin and Jeongin, grew up together due to their parents being coworkers and sharing a nanny as toddlers until recently. Jisung had met them somewhere in between those years, as Jeongin lived only a few blocks away from his own house, and the trio had grown up playing together in the trash-littered streets of their rundown neighborhood even after Hyunjin had moved to a town of higher prestige. Jisung had introduced the two groups to each other, stating he didn’t want to constantly choose between spending time with one or the other. 

And then he had met Seungmin in music club. Minho knew his brother always had a penchant for singing, and he had a talent for it that the older had always encouraged, so it’s no surprise that Jisung was immediately drawn to how sincere Seungmin’s love for vocal performance was. A freckled boy with a bit of an accent, Felix, then piped in on how Jisung was too nervous to befriend the singer since he had never been the type to be good with strangers. The comment earned him a disgruntled whack from the aforementioned shy guy and a chuckle on Minho’s part, and Felix went on to explain how he helped him approach Seungmin. From there, the rest was history.

At that point, the whole group was involved in voicing their appreciation for Jisung, waxing sappy, over-exaggerated poetics about whatever came to mind to see his flush burn up his neck to the rounds of his ears. It was much easier to get to know the others once they had all begun to creep away into different topics with Minho now more comfortable in adding his own thought or two. It was easier because of Jisung.

He found out that Felix and Chan were family friends, living in an apartment close to his own, and that the younger of the duo knew Jisung first since they were in the same homeroom in middle school. Jeongin was revealed to be the youngest, which wasn’t hard to believe given the way others doted on his every whim. Minho was told about their recent pact to not date until Chan gets a full eight hours of sleep and about Changbin’s new car that he got for Christmas. Hyunjin was planning on dyeing his hair on his birthday, to which he settled on pink at Jeongin’s suggestion. 

Yet, for some reason, Minho always found himself veering his attention back to Jisung. Unable to escape from his orbit from the start.

From then on, the two had practically been attached to the hip. They donned the label of best friends despite only knowing each other a bit over a month at that point in time. But they couldn’t come to care, especially during the countless hours spent simply enjoying the other’s company and wasting the days away together.

Every passing breath with him had always been crack whip in speed, moments and sensations weaving through the days with burning passion, raw emotion, and everything in between. Minho had learned so much about his own self-expression from the way Jisung would open up to him, unashamed to gift the older with the more vulnerable parts of himself in a fashion that made bruises become forgotten while smiles became well-worn. He manifested his affections through action, being one to show before telling to avoid creating room for doubt in his devotion to his friends. He pressed comforting touches to Felix and Seungmin’s weeping eyes after finding out their music club teacher had passed away, only to cry in Minho’s arms with an unapologetic sorrow once they were in the solitary confines of Jisung’s shoe closet bedroom. 

Hours were too short when Jisung took Minho’s time. And Minho let him take and take and take, always willing to do so because Jisung would give and give just as much back. But it was give and take and share— _together_ , since that’s what always felt best.

So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise in realizing his not-so-platonic feelings for Han Jisung. 

It wasn’t a complete bolt out of the blue per se, since he’d been aware of his sexual preferences for a long enough time where he’d come to terms with it, and growing close to half a dozen boys around his age was basically asking for trouble, but the situation was more damning in the potential consequences rather than shock value. 

Jisung was his friend, his underclassman, his _younger brother’s age,_ and possibly not interested in boys at all. There were so many daunting possibilities that could snake cold fingers around their friendship and gnarl it to shreds if he even made the slightest mistake. And Minho could never afford to make mistakes.

“Dude, are you good?”

Seungmin was looking at his brother as if he had grown three heads and a half, the obsidian shine of his bangs shifting in the breeze. The cool air on Minho’s dampening neck felt lovely in the midst of the coming summer heat, but there was only so much it could do for his nerves. 

“What do you mean?”

“You look like you’re going to hurl,” the younger brushed the lingering dirt off from where Minho had landed on his shoulder after he had taken a misstep when climbing over the school fence. It had never happened before, and Seungmin had looked like he was going to concave from laughter until threatened with a future in their oven once they got back home later.

“My stomach hurts,” Minho mumbled. He took a hold of the metal ladder bolted to the brick of the storage building, the grainy texture warm from sunbathing since dusk. Pleasant, crisp music could be heard from the rooftop where it blended with the jovial noises of familiar voices. 

Once he turned back to face his brother, Seungmin was serving him a completely unconvinced twist of the lips. “I can tell when you’re lying, you know. Especially since you’ve been kind of acting funny this whole week. But your face is doing that ugly thing it does when you’re thinking about something really stupid. So… I don’t care. Unless you’re going to do something even more stupid because of it. So I don’t care _for now_.”

Though the insult is clearly meant to be on the more on the light-hearted side, Minho reminded himself to be more mindful about his expression and covered his appreciation for Seungmin easing off the matter with a grumbled, “If _you_ keep saying stupid shit like that, I’ll use your Day6 album to wipe my ass once this stomachache passes through me.”

The two climbed their way up the side of the building, the heights no longer pulling at Minho’s stomach from how often they had scaled up the ladder for more than half a year. Surprisingly (or perhaps not), there was still a persistent flipping in the pit of his gut as soon as he reached the rooftop, welcomed by the happy greetings of his friends and particularly in tuned with a specific elated call of his name. 

“My Minho-hyung!” The adoring chime in Jisung’s voice shot straight through Minho’s ribs and ricocheted into his throat to roadblock any sort of fond response that would usually be expected.

He could already feel his brain short-circuiting on account of the swelling in his chest. Minho beelined over to where Felix was offering up a tupperware of brownies to him and his brother. It would be too obvious not to acknowledge Jisung at all, so he tugged a hand through the latter’s hair as he stuffed the dessert in his mouth. The _whine_ that slid between Jisung’s teeth, however, wrenched itself somewhere low and hot, and the brownie came flying back out.

Underneath Minho’s coughing fit and the cackling of the younger boys, Felix squawked at him to ‘ _Wash it down!’_ as he handed over an uncapped bottle of iced coffee. The bitterness was refreshing on his tongue, flushed down the chunks of fudge irritating his throat, and balanced out the intensity of the sugar on his taste buds. After taking one last gulp, he extended the half-empty bottle back to Felix only for it to be intercepted by grabby hands.

“That’s mine, actually,” Jisung stated matter-of-factly. He uncapped the bottle again to take his own sip. A sip right from where Minho’s lips were only seconds ago. “You know Felix doesn’t like coffee unless it’s borderline diabetic.”

He patted the spot next to him, small fingers landing softly on their ever-present makeshift nest of blankets. Minho plopped down with the intention of maintaining a good dozen inches between them lest his heart went into overdrive every time their bare skin brushed where their shorts failed to cover. It was a plan doomed from the start, Jisung closing the notable gap by throwing his slim calves over Minho’s thighs and hunching forward to hug his legs to his chest, just so he could continue whatever conversation was being had with Felix before the half brothers had arrived. 

Usually, Minho would have placed a palm to the back of the younger’s neck, thumbed at the fine hairs tickling his knuckles, maybe even kept it there until the summer sun accumulated enough sweat on both of their bodies to break them apart while expressing mock disgust.

But Minho’s whole world was _un_ usual now. It was unusual how badly he wanted to turn his head simply to see how the light would bounce off his best friend’s tanning complexion. It was unusual how rapidly his pulse quickened at the possibility of leaning forward until only a breath separated the seemingly impossible. It was unusual how fast everything had changed, how much he wanted even _more_ to change.

There was nothing usual about the taxing, unforeseeable experiences and sensations that his feelings had forced him to face. But the more he thinks about it, falling in love with Han Jisung was never meant to be anything except out of the ordinary. 

Even the way they had become so close was quizzical the exchange of casual quips morphed into an appreciation of their outlandish humor and thus led to a quick understanding of their similar ways of thinking. They would reveal themselves, little by little, and receive a surprising, full-fledged acceptance rather than a contempt or even an indifference of their quirks. Jisung didn’t want Minho to change for him and he didn’t want to change for Minho either. And that was strange to Minho. 

They simply clicked, fit together like they had never experienced their own lives without the accompaniment of the other. Like well-oiled cogs that appear too janky to fit in the mechanics of everyday life, but fit together perfectly in their own little solar system. Effortlessly. Naturally. Happily and comfortably.

Minho had never fallen in love before. Nonetheless, he was rooted in the idea that falling in love with Jisung was far better than falling in love with any other person on the planet—any person in the many universes the younger would spiel about.

Even if Jisung was to ever discover what Minho was hiding under the blanket of his cool persona, the latter knew that Jisung wouldn’t treat him much differently—but maybe that would hurt even more. What if Jisung avoided pursuing romances in an effort not to hurt his feelings? What if he hid important things of that sort simply out of pity?

What if Jisung _did_ treat him differently?

Sharp and vicious chills avalanched down Minho’s insides at the thought. He cursed himself for his lack of restraint, because the grimace that soured his expression was definitely noticeable from the way Jisung slipped a kind, curious hand under his own.

Their hands were of similar size, though Jisung’s nail beds were more oval in shape. His fingers tapered more at the tips, pinched off and slightly crooked in bone structure. They were imperfect, nonetheless felt so right in Minho’s grasp, so homey and snug that it burned its warmth into his skin intensely enough for him to rip away from the contact without even thinking.

Jisung flinched at the abrupt motion. The look of confusion and worry wrinkled into his features failed in performing an effective job to mask the hurt lining his eyes. 

Minho had hurt him.

“Uh,” Felix’s baritone snapped the two out of their daydream. “Are you okay, hyung?”

Only a few days had passed since the night of acknowledging his affections for his best friend and Minho was already spiraling. 

“Yeah, yeah, my stomach just hasn’t been feeling really well.” He flicked his eyes over to Jisung’s still concerned frown and apologized, “Sorry.”

He grazed a reassuring back of the hand over Jisung’s—the one that he had ripped away from before—ignoring his anxiety in hopes of placating the other’s. It seemed to work, much to Minho’s relief, as he was momentarily exposed to yet another of those lovely, straight-from-the-heart smiles. Jisung then twisted his body to reach behind him and rotated back once he had snagged an item in his grip. It was a jelly pouch, one from the brand Minho had recommended to him two months prior when Jisung was experiencing a particularly nasty stomach flu and couldn’t handle the texture of solid food in his mouth without turning green.

“I know you don’t like to eat when you’re sick, so finish this,” he asserted. “It’s only open because I already had a little but there’s still most of it left.”

Which meant another shared sip. 

“Hey, your mouth was already on that.” As soon as he finished the sentence, Minho’s eyes flickered down to said _mouth_ —

And back up hastily, only to catch Jisung spearing him with a disbelieving squint. “You basically made out with my americano just now.”

Minho hid the choking on his saliva with a stilted scoff. He still had to tear his eyes away, so they settled on an amused-looking Felix.

“Because Yongbok tricked me!”

The entertained smirk disappeared from underneath trademark freckles. “You looked like you were dying!”

“You couldn’t have given me a new water bottle?”

“It was the nearest thing.”

“Excuses—all I hear are excuses. What if one of us was sick? You’re paying for my next flu shot.”

“I thought you _were_ feeling sick?”

“Constipation isn’t contagious.”

Jisung tugged at the fraying seam of Minho’s muscle tee, a pout sported on pink lips. “Hey, don’t ignore me.”

The problem was there was no way Minho could ever ignore this boy, the budding petals of something sweet in his chest, or the heat emanating from the sweat-slicked and golden skin exposed from how low Jisung’s collar hung on lithe muscle. 

“Funny you would think it would ever be easy to ignore _you_.”

“Then pay attention to me.” The pout grew, and so did the figments of sparkles dancing in his enchanting aura—which were _definitely_ not real, Lee Minho. 

“You’re so needy,” Minho groaned. “What if Yongbok wants my attention, too?”

“Goodbye.” And Felix up and left, draping himself over a galled Seungmin some feet away. Traitor. 

“Hyung.”

Soft and sugary in his tonal color, Jisung had uttered the word partnered by what the older had deemed his ‘confrontational look’—one that usually had a guilty honesty tripping out from behind Minho’s teeth. And he was absolutely not ready for the cluttered and newborn thoughts that scribbled across the walls of his brain to come fumbling out any time soon. 

“Stop trying to make me give you an indirect kiss, you lech,” his deadpan was believable, backed by his signature blank stare, and Minho counted it as a success. 

But then Jisung grinned viciously, taunted him by asking, “Should I be more direct then?” and puckered his lips, the corners turning up with a mischievous flare. He had barely inched closer, but the youthful shimmer in his eyes was only adding to the flame crackling against Minho’s ribcage. 

Tried meditation (as if this would really work for a pubescent, love-struck teenage boy) and emotional suppression (unhealthy, but easier) proved ineffective against the impact of Han Jisung on his poor, virgin heart.

Rather than laughing at his antics or even feigning disgust, Minho’s wiring failed him for what he hoped would be the last time that day. His hands gripped at the blanket besides them to fling it over Jisung’s pretty, heart-shaped lips. 

“My stomach is killing me—I have to use the bathroom.”

The excuse barely entered the thick air boiling between them before Minho’s legs were springing into action and carrying him over to the edge of the rooftop. Aching muscles in his hamstrings were groaning from a particularly intense night of breakdance practice, but the soreness went ignored in the fervent need to recollect himself in a moment of solitude. 

Minho threw his intended whereabouts over his shoulder when prompted by one of the other boys and hastily slid sweaty palms down the ladder. Blood pounded in his temples as soon as he glanced up in time to catch Jisung wrangling himself from under the blanket. But stained brick eventually obstructed his vision in his descent, and Minho could only wonder if the younger would have had that same hurt and confused expression painted on.

Quick to get away, his pace picked up to a light jog towards the auditorium where the locker rooms were seldom closed for the practicality of irregular athletic team hours. The adrenaline fizzing throughout his body served to seal in the fact that he was, in fact, much deeper into this than he had initially believed. 

Once he was far enough from the storage room, the reality of his situation began to seep deeper into his skin to rattle the calcium out of his bones, cooing at his bruised ego and turning his face hot to touch. Minho slumped against the nearest wall as he groaned into his hands. The siding of the auditorium was a bit too rough on his bare skin, and he probably scratched up his arm in his ignorant move of throwing his weight onto the brick so haphazardly—but it was a little too hard to breathe, and perhaps more concerning that he didn’t even feel any pain.

 _Breathe_ , to ground himself. _Breathe, don’t let them see._

“Hyung!”

Minho jumped off the wall, spinning his attention to see a shaggy head of black hair and doe eyes peeking out from around the corner of the building. Jisung was quite literally the last person he wanted to see at the moment, yet the shy smile the younger supplied did wonders to at last ease the air into his lungs.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You kind of…look like shit?”

Jisung’s smile grew bigger, more sure, as he mindfully stopped to leave at least a couple feet between them. The shadow cast over them did nothing to dampen the ever-present glow that seemed to surround his bright personality. Minho swallowed dryly. Jisung looked good in any light or no light at all, which he deemed completely unfair.

“I look good all the time,” the older shot back. The happy laugh that bubbled out fanned the wildfire in Minho’s chest. “I just have to go to the bathroom, stop being so nosey and in my business. I wasn’t going to take long.”

That damn pout made a return. “I like Minho-hyung too much to mind my business.”

It was a joke—a joke and _nothing else_. A joke that made Minho recoil and avert his gaze to the side, because that was all it would ever be: just a joke. He watched the soft sway of oak leaves in the attending heat of the season, small creatures scattering amongst the branches in the same manner his thoughts were. He was usually so quick to snark back to Jisung’s teasing, known to do it well enough that his awkward silence and shiftiness was an obnoxious red flag to his change in perspective on their relationship—so, of course, he got caught in the act.

“Ah. I’m sorry…” 

Minho quashed his nerves to pry his fixation from the treeline, because he had never heard Jisung sound that unsure of himself—and he looked _so_ unsure, so small the way he curled into himself, hands clasped so tightly together and head bowed in shame. Minho froze as he felt the ground swallowing him in.

“For what?” 

Grief twitched onto Jisung’s face and it leveled an uncomfortable pressure into Minho’s stomach. 

“For making you uncomfortable,” the younger muttered. “You’ve been acting different lately. And I’ve kind of noticed it’s only been with me, unless I’m just assuming or overthinking it but… I don’t know.” He toed at the ground with the scruffed front of his sneaker. “I don’t know.”

Minho wanted to deny it; he wanted to shake the idea from Jisung’s thoughts, reassure him that he didn’t do anything wrong—that it was not his fault for how Minho was behaving. But Minho didn’t want to lie, either. He couldn’t lie to Jisung’s face with the claim of the whole ordeal being a product of the younger’s overactive imagination. In truth, he was completely and utterly _in love_ with Han Jisung. So how could he ever lie to his face like that? 

“I’m really, really sorry if I did something else to make you upset o-or feel weird. Just—if you tell me what I’m doing wrong, I promise I’ll try to fix it—no, I _will_ fix it! I just don’t want you to be upset with me a-and _ignore_ me—”

Like the tears breaking through to shine over Jisung’s panicked eyes, a dam inside Minho burst.

Jisung’s mother was anything but that—anything but a mother. Minho had learned the hard way what kind of person she was. 

It happened within the first month Jisung had deemed Minho his best friend, just another occasion of enjoying their giddy youth together. Just another day of walking the younger home from an afternoon at Jeongin’s with the promise of watching a movie or two, though it was cut short upon hearing disembodied voices bounce down the hallway as they entered the house and Jisung yanking them out the door before Minho could even process what was happened. It took about an hour for Jisung to stop his apologetic and panicked rambling on the playground swings. Minho didn’t want to pry, couldn’t bring himself to drive out an explanation at the expense of pushing his friend into further hysteria, so he decided to wait for a better time. 

He would have preferred hearing it directly from Jisung himself, but clarification came in the form of Felix. 

“You met his mom?” he had gasped. “Are you okay?”

Minho didn’t know what to make of the appalled reaction. “I mean, I almost met her. We walked into his house and I think I heard a woman’s voice so I assume it was her, but Sungie dragged me out before anything else happened. Why?”

Felix had looked like he was in pain, unable to escape out of the grave that he dug himself into.

“She sells herself,” he confessed. “And that’s all she does. That’s why Ji’s never home—because that’s where she brings her clients. And it’s not even that she kicks him out when she does. She basically pretends Ji doesn’t even exist. Like he’s invisible. Ji just sees men coming in and makes his way out so he doesn’t have to be around when she does it.”

All the instances Jisung had spoken so fondly of Jeongin’s mother taking care of him in the elementary days they had wasted away in the neighborhood playground, the incessant whining for attention that was never actually a gag, the countless nights he had asked if he could keep Minho company because his mother was ‘at work.’ They were all because Jisung was omitted and dismissed by the person he needed the most.

He still called her his mother.

Jisung’s fear of neglect was, in all likelihood, a major factor as to why he liked Minho so much. Because Minho couldn’t ignore him even if he _tried—_

And yet, after everything, he tried to. 

Minho tried to ignore Jisung after his feelings had surfaced. Minho turned his back on him because he was scared. He did the one thing that Jisung had never thought he would do, all due to the selfish cowardice blinding his cognizance to the world outside his own.

“Sung…”

Jisung looked so scared, so small, so desperate to right a wrong he never committed. _Minho did wrong._

“I’m sorry,” Minho croaked out. His mouth was stupidly dry, but he would be damned to let it keep him from fixing his mess. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It has nothing to do with you doing anything. I promise it’s not you.” _It was Minho._

“I _—_ Are you sure?” Jisung had such a hopeful gleam to his eyes. “Because if I did, I would rather you be honest. I won’t get offended, I swear.”

Minho's heart continued to sink. _Make it better._

“No, no, it’s just—It’s my fault.” He put up a hand when Jisung made a move of rebuttal. “To tell you the truth, I-I can’t tell you. I just… I’m not ready to talk about it yet. There’s a lot going through my head right now and I need to think it over by myself because it’s _my_ problem. I’ll tell you one day, but… not for now.”

“Can I help?” Jisung’s hands were still white in their tight grip. It looked uncomfortable, which led Minho to cross the dirt path between them and take the anxious hands into his own. A strange peace nestled into their hold.

He swiped a thumb over a tiny, oval scar below one of Jisung’s knuckles, and wondered why he had never noticed it. Maybe he needed to start noticing the lesser things that were imperfect, because they were just as important.

“I don’t think so, Sungie.” It came out sadder than what he had hoped. “I think I need to do this by myself.”

There was a silence, Jisung pressing his focus to their hands while Minho waited for any positive sign in the otherwise dull atmosphere of the situation. When Jisung looked up at him again, it was through the curtain of his bangs. The messy, slightly oily strands of hair could only obscure the timid sparkle in his eyes, but did nothing for the embarrassed tint staining his cheeks. He gave a squeeze where their hands were stitched together, and Minho knew that they would be okay.

“I made a mistake,” Minho murmured. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that. It was… I was thinking about myself but I didn’t bother considering how you felt, or how it would look to you. I’m sorry.” 

If you asked their friend group if Jisung was easy to cry, only Minho would know him well enough to say yes. Minho pulled him into his arms, Jisung nestling his head on the older’s shoulder while he sniffled quietly. Their hands refused to break apart.

“Can you forgive me?” Minho whispered into the side of his head.

“Why are you apologizing?” Jisung grumbled, its bite dampened by how tears were stuck to the words. 

Minho closed his eyes. Their hands felt so perfect together. “Because I scared you,” he replied. “But I promise I won’t keep you in the dark anymore, okay?”

Even if Minho’s affections were to come to light, he shouldn’t care. In fact, he should be proud of it—proud to be as close enough to someone as special and wonderful as Jisung to fall in love with. 

It was then, with Jisung tucked snugly in his arms, pink cheeks flushed in the heat of the weather and the heat of the moment, that Minho fully came to terms with his feelings for his best friend. 

Jisung whispered so low and exposed that they barely reached the ears, “Thank you, hyung. Love you.”

  
  


+

  
  


“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Jeongin murmurs, his voice shaken instead of tinkling its usual mirth.

“They’re adults,” Chan says. He peeks into the rearview mirror when they stop at a red light. “I think they’ll figure it out for themselves.”

Seungmin comfortingly pats at the youngest’s leg. “You knew about everything?”

Chan sighs as the light turns green and he presses on the gas again. “It was never my business to tell.”

“It seemed like kind of a big deal,” Seungmin counters. “I don’t get why they never told us they were together.”

“It was complicated. It still is, if you couldn’t tell.”

It doesn’t seem to satisfy Seungmin’s disgruntlement. “I know, but none of us knew? If two people in a friend group start to date, don’t you think it would be common sense to say so?”

Hyunjin pipes up from where he’s laid his head on Jeongin’s shoulder. “I mean, they didn’t _have_ to tell us. We all have our secrets.”

“It’s just that—Did they not trust us? Did they think we’d freak out or something? I just wish they could’ve told us so they didn’t have to go through all of that alone. I never knew that—I just wish I knew—,” a self-loathing hiss of anger, “Felix must’ve been so scared going through that all by himself.”

“It’s not on you, Min,” Minho interjects, because of course Seungmin would blame himself. Self-righteous brat. “None of us knew and that was their choice. You can’t blame yourself.”

Seungmin goes silent at that. When Minho turns around from his seat up front, he’s relieved to see both Jeongin and Hyunjin gifting the younger brother with small, gentle touches as he hangs his head low. 

“I didn’t even know for a while,” Chan adds as his own form of comfort. “I only found out because we lived together and sneaking out wasn’t Felix’s forte.”

“I just wish we knew, so we could have been there for him,” Seungmin tries his best to hide a small sniffle. “You should’ve told us, hyung.”

“It wasn’t mine to tell,” Chan repeats, turning off the highway as they finally arrive into the town of their destination. The buildings are dimmer, rusty apartments above run-down shops lining the faded tar housing well-loved cars. 

“But you guys moved away,” Jeongin protests now. “And we didn’t even know the real reason why. I think that we should have at least gotten the truth instead of you guys up and leaving without a real answer.”

Chan carefully veers around a massive pothole instead of answering right away, but his face looks pained when Minho glances over. “I know,” he eventually whispers. Then, more assertively he follows, “But we’re not doing that again. After Felix graduates, we’re staying. For good.”

“Promise?” Jeongin sounds so young again, so youthful with a childlike hope.

“We promise.”

The streets progressively inch into less ideal accommodations, far from the sleek, over-maintained glass structures that speared the clouds above Changbin’s residence and more toward the kinds of dwellings that house people who have little to no other options. Trees don’t look so artificial here, the grass brown from malnourishment and a small group of kids bounding about their yard with only a bucket of chalk and their imagination. But the joy is evident on their screaming faces and they’re having the type of fun that can only be propelled by the company of others. The car drifts by and Minho loses them after they shrink into the rearview mirror.

There’s still a discomfort in the car, and it unfurls deep inside Minho’s mouth where he wants to break the silence. He doesn’t.

A few more minutes pass until he deems that insanity may be imminent. There’s that sick feeling again, nausea washing over him in small, yet menacing waves.

“Where are you guys staying?” Hyunjin asks. Minho takes a deep breath and his mind clears a bit.

“We’re renting out a small place for the time being.” Another pothole. “It’s a bit too early to start looking for apartments now but we’ll probably find one where we used to live.” He darts a glance into the mirror again, and his dimples cave. “We’ll be close. Hang out like we used to, ‘kay?”

Hyunjin starts cheering, followed by Jeongin and Seungmin with their own chorus of delight at the news. Chan laughs fondly, and the blanket of discomfort is shed. The volume within the confines of the ride is quickly filled by the murmur of casual chatter as the streets continue to bump under their wheels. Despite this all, a stubborn, sheer veil drapes over Minho’s shoulders and puts him at unease. He tries to let the gentle rocking of uneven pavement lull him into a lethargic repose, but to no avail.

Suddenly, his seat jolts forward and Minho makes an ugly noise of surprise.

“Why are you so quiet,” Seungmin chitters as he kicks at the upholstery again.

Instead of replying, Minho reclines his seat back and cackles at the following thud and groan of anguish from his brother. 

“You get blood on this rental and I’m sending you the bill.”

Minho flips the fringe atop his brow. “Send it to my sugar daddy Seo Changbin.”

“Disgusting. I would never share a sugar daddy with you,” his brother pans. 

“Hyung, when are you getting your phone?” Hyunjin whines. “Every time I want to text you by texting Seungminnie, I get sidetracked.”

Minho doesn’t answer. 

He can’t, because his air freezes on his tongue and his head begins to pound. 

The neighborhood scenery is trickling into the deepest crevices of his brain and stabs at the wound beneath its bandage. His eyes race across the places of memories as the car speeds by—the small playground with the broken swing, the bent street sign that is now completely broken off, the alleyway with vulgar pictures graffitied into the brick—all parts of his past that look a bit different, yet just as he remembers them to be before his coma. 

Two years have passed. Two whole years, but the houses still look the same. Which means, Minho hopes with all his might, that just a few blocks to the northeast would be a house that he knows as well as his own apartment. A house that shelters the lucid memories he actually has to his name, ones that he cherishes because they’re the ones that keep him sane. That give him light at the end of this winding tunnel.

It takes him a while before he realizes Chan is asking if he’s okay—because he’s _not_ . The younger trio in the back is fretting over him, too. He tries to say that _he’s fine,_ but his efforts are only rewarded by another wave of nausea. The car swerves to the curb, everyone is touching him and he _hates_ it. He hates it and he needs to _get out_.

There are too many hands on him, not enough space, too much static in his head, and the pain is hammering at his skull. 

Minho yanks the car door open and rips away from the seatbelt much harder than necessary. His hands feel like they aren’t his, he’s losing control of his limbs, he can’t get the air to his lungs. Everything is sideways and suddenly the ground disappears from beneath his feet. Panicked voices cry out his name as the unwanted hands come back to pick him up off the sediment. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

_Breathe_ , Minho begs himself. _Breathe, don’t worry them, breathe._

He tries, yet the only thing that happens is a dry heave that leaves him even dizzier than before. 

Sharp bursts of pain continue to crash into him. He just needs one second to recompose—even though time is melting together and Minho can’t even tell where he is anymore. 

Except he knows; this is a place he knows far too well. He knows every back alley shortcut, every avenue, and every stain on the sidewalk. He’s spent treasured hours slipping on ice after escapades at Jeongin’s, counting the cherry blossoms buds as spring crept in, and giving names to the stars on hot summer nights. 

Minho can’t remember the past two years of his life. But he remembers the Jisung before them. 

As soon as the name materializes in his mind, his weight starts to submit to gravity again. His skin regains its sense of touch, the sidewalk gritty under his fingertips. Acid reflux leaves his throat burning with the humidity of yet-to-fall rain doing little to soothe the sting. 

He wants to laugh at how corny the sentiment is, of the fact that Jisung himself keeps Minho sane, grounded, _alive_. He misses him. 

“Jisung,” he chokes out. “W-why hasn’t he visited me? I don’t understand—do you think I should run over to his house to check on him?” 

He lifts his head up once the queasiness subsides. The ache in his head keeps steady when he takes in the solemn expressions of his friends; the sympathetic gloss of Chan’s eyes, the avoidance in Hyunjin’s as he chews at his painted lip, the almost frightened wrinkle between Jeongin’s brows. 

It’s Seungmin who makes him break. His jaw is wound too tight for comfort, a pain crinkling at the corners of his eyes. It’s a look Minho’s never seen on his brother’s face before, and it rakes nails of dread down his back. 

Minho bolts up from his seat on the curb and _runs_. 

He runs until he can barely hear the distressed calls of his friends behind him, runs until his lungs burn from exhaustion and until familiar crooked street lights whiz by like shooting stars. His soles pound against the gum-riddled pavement, leaving the ground to send him flying through the one-way streets. The pain in the back of his skull is piercing. It seethes to the point where he can’t tell if it’s the reason behind his blurring vision or if that might just be from the frantic speed in his strides. 

It all goes ignored, however, as the pressing thought of seeing Jisung is the only thing that he can think of. His friends won’t utter a word of what has come of him. He needs to know. Whether it’s kept hush to spare him from the daunting truth or to spare themselves from reliving everything all over again, he needs to know. 

Minho visualizes Jisung’s heart-shaped smile, his bright and contagious laughter, his calloused fingertips, and it pushes him to drive himself forward, around the corner of Jisung’s block so fast he almost crashes into a marred street sign. 

Dreadful hypotheticals threaten to rip at his skin—If they had perhaps had a falling out led by ugly misunderstandings and immature assumptions, or maybe Jisung had moved far, far away from their low-class town in search of something worth his while, leaving Minho with nothing but heartbreak and unreachable remembrances. The speculations prick at the corners of his eyes—but they’re not confirmed, and that’s all that he needs to keep pushing forward and faster.

He can hear the sound of tires rolling on uneven asphalt behind him and the bellowing voices of his friends grow louder as they approach him. But there are only a few houses left before he makes it to his destination—before he can finally see Jisung, two years older than when he had last and maybe even just as elated to see Minho as the latter would be to see him. 

Minho finally locks his eyes onto the dingey white of the house’s chipped paint siding. His heart leaps and the tossing in his stomach bleeds into his throat. The idea of Jisung welcoming him with open arms almost brings him to hysterics, while the various possibilities of their friendship being so much more than what he last remembers it to be are so enticing that he almost cries out the younger’s name in his restlessness to just _know_.

Frantic eyes find the porch of the house and his breath leaves his body.

His legs wobble, ultimately giving in, and his knees collide onto the rough grit of the sidewalk just outside the house’s rusty metal gate. It should hurt with the way his bare skin breaks against the sediment, but a numbness takes hold of his body. Still, he mindlessly claws his way up the pathway to the front porch, hands and heels scrambling to find purchase on the scratchy stone in his breathless state. Finally, he finds enough strength to clamber up the rickety wooden steps, the gashes in his knees leaving angry stains on the worn-down tarnish of the planks beneath them as he kneels down. 

Jisung’s smile is small, maybe a bit forced, but the ever-present gleam to his eyes is still twinkling with the wondrous delight that Minho has been craving the day he woke up in that hospital bed. He remembers how those eyes had last reflected the calming blues of the salty ocean, danced in rhythm to the upbeat tunes of their late-night beach barbeque, sparked with the same fiery intensity of the bonfire that lit their little world ablaze.

He remembers how breathtaking the view was—how beautiful the sight of Jisung’s radiance was as it shone for Minho and, at times, Minho only. 

And there was beautiful Jisung, bow-lipped smile and brilliantly expressive eyes, bordered by a dark oak framing and the elegant petals of blooming floral arrangements. Minho reaches a tremoring hand to feel at the metal engravement pressed into the frame, almost as if to disprove its existence.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_In Memory of Han Jisung_

_(14.9.2000 - 1.10.2016)_

  
  
  
  
  


iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah... so u have made it to the end of the chapter. thank u for reading!  
> i just wanted to establish that this work mainly focuses on minho and his journey following the events with the rest of the boys. while minsung is the 'main pairing', i hope u continue to read on in order to find out what comes of their little found family, as well as to discover the rest of jisung's story.  
> feel free to vent ur emotions in the comments, i will be ready :,,,)


	4. 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: Minho deals with a heavy state of depression in this chapter, though the ending of this chapter is very kind to them all. in addition, there is a very brief mention of attempted non-con in the very beginning where murder is also discussed. stay safe!

Han Jisung was murdered on October 1st, 2016.

He was a second-year high school student, a young man who was as smart as he was spirited, who loved the rhythmic beauty of music, who sparked life into the otherwise dull wear-and-tear of everyday life. 

Police arrived at his residence after a concerned neighbor called about a potential domestic disturbance, only to find the boy face down on his bedroom floor with the back door swinging wide open and his mother trying to climb the wire fence. 

She had claimed that it wasn’t her fault—that the blood on her hands was shared by a man she brought home that demanded to have his hooker money spent on her kid rather than herself. Jisung had put up a decent fight, according to the pathologist, which was unsurprising being the firecracker he was. 

Jisung was nothing if not a fighter, someone who stood his ground in the face of conflict no matter the dangers posed upon himself; he lost his last battle to a complete stranger and the person he always needed the most. 

To this day, the mystery client has yet to be found. The only clues: a drugged-out description provided by Jisung’s mother and the size of his hands deduced by the bruises on a poor, 17-year-old’s corpse—because no one gives a prostitute their identity. 

  
  


+

  
  


The days bleed together, the lines separating the morning and night go inky like watercolors. Everything passes in slow motion but Minho blinks and suddenly it’s another day. 

He sinks his sides into his mattress on some days and his back on the others. Sleep feels the same as staying awake, the tackiness coating his tongue ever-present, the stiffness in his limbs cracking on the occasions Minho shifts his position under the sheets. The curtains are always fastened shut, with the only way to tell the days apart being the frequent texts and visits from the boys. 

They have a group chat. Throughout the day his brand new phone pings and pings and pings but there’s no way to get annoyed by it because it simply evanesces into the background like everything else. The pings keep him awake, acting as a sharp, shrill reminder that he is still here. Still stuck. Still alive. But if he opens his phone, he doesn’t even know how to use a Samsung and the harsh blue light of the screen would only add to the ache in his head. So, he never bothers. He knows that there will only be notifications from the group chat and six other people. 

Only six.

Seungmin and Jeongin slink into the room every day, urging him to at least shower or to implore him to eat. There’s no discomfort in his stomach, and he can’t feel the itch of summer sweat on his scalp like he used to. All he feels is the mattress, sometimes the cold fingers of concerned friends through his comforter, and empty. 

Hyunjin comes by almost as frequently, mostly trailing behind the two youngest of their group in solidarity that they may find more success in numbers. He talks about his cousin, a soon-to-debut trainee, who teaches him choreo that she had learned that week, or what new style he wants to wear for his next photo shoot. The chatter is like white noise in the background of whirring air conditioning and the clatter of cutlery from the kitchen down the hall of Jeongin’s house. But Minho listens, closes his eyes when Hyunjin debates his next new hair color or which new piercing he should get. Minho wants to reach out, ruffle Hyunjin’s styled hair like he used to when the demands of the younger’s parents nearly pushed him to a breaking point. He doesn’t know if he still did that, recently, only that he _used_ to do it. That was two years ago, and Minho is reminded that everything has changed.

It’s days—or nights, because he doesn’t know anymore—like this when Minho’s head pounds the hardest. 

The words of the medical technicians ring throughout his skull and batter against his healing scar: _“Given the psychological and physical distresses of your particular situation, this might be much more difficult. Your subconscious might be heavily affecting the ability to recover from your amnesia.”_

It’s one of the few things that draws out any sort of feeling from Minho’s state of emptiness, —because he still can’t remember anything. He has yet to recollect the time lost to the damn gash in his head, and the frustration builds at the fact. He curses the doctors in his head for being wrong. He curses the stubborn pain in his skull and the ache in his chest. 

What could his subconscious be suppressing at this point? What could be worse than reliving the discovery that his best friend, the love of his life—

That Han Jisung was dead?

He is gone, unable to return to the town of their adolescence where the eight of them had enjoyed the highlights of their lives as friends. And then Minho curses himself for never fully realizing that something was wrong and for being so hopeful, because Jisung would have been the first to cry at Minho’s hospital bedside upon hearing the unimaginable events that had transpired in the wake of his blinding rage to protect his brother, the first to comfort him and empathize with the pain of being young kids without proper, loving parents. 

But the bitterness fades, the splitting headache doesn’t, and Minho decides that it’s probably better this way. He convinced himself that he doesn’t want to know how it felt to find out the news the day after, or reexperience the slow burn of the helpless despair while watching everyone drift apart after Changbin had abandoned them as he gave rise to his fear and self-hatred.

Still. Something else feels missing.

A solidary hole that gapes and moans at the loss of its complement. A piece of knowledge that begs to be remembered. He can’t remember.

Minho stops listening when Hyunjin comments on his star tattoo, and how he might get another design right below it.

The curtains are fastened shut. He doesn’t want to see the stars anymore.

  
  


+

  
  


Chan doesn’t prod him with requests to eat or shower or live. He’s quiet as Felix joins the other three in their efforts to draw Minho out of his reclusive state. As a simple onlooker, he stands by the door noiselessly, though his presence is thick enough to travel into every crevice of the room. It sinks a tonnage of emotions into Minho’s awareness, ranging from a much-needed comfort to a shared understanding. 

He comes alone one evening, returning from his earlier visit that same day with the younger boys. 

Minho knows it’s him because Chan doesn’t greet him. He doesn’t expect anything as he sits at the foot of the bed, his breathing deep and slow in the empty stillness. It’s so quiet that every minuscule shift of the bedding disrupts the atmosphere.

Then, out of nowhere, the bed begins to tremble and a snivel rips the silence. 

“I’m sorry.” Chan’s voice is almost inaudible, vulnerable.

Minho shuts his eyes tight and wills away the building pressure behind them. 

“I wasn’t there for you guys when—when it happened,” the sadness dripping off the words rips at the gut. “I just wanted to protect Felix. He begged me to come back, to at least attend Sung’s funeral but I—,” he chokes on a particularly painful-sounding sob. “We couldn’t make it in time. Everything happened so fast and we… He was Felix’s best friend, you know? Like a little brother to me. And Felix, you know how he is. He blamed himself for weeks after. Saying he should’ve been there for Sung. Even when I told him that it wasn’t his fault, you know what he said?” There’s a wet, pitiful chuckle. “He said that I had no right to talk. That I was blaming myself for being unable to do anything to help any of the kids. I even said that I wish I took all of you guys back to Sydney with us. And we all could’ve started over. Together.”

Something bittersweet buds in Minho’s chest at the last notion. He imagines them all crowded in a dwelling situated in the torrid Australian heat, sweaty and in each other’s spaces nonetheless. Then Felix and Chan wouldn’t have had to leave them, maybe Changbin would have toughened it out against his inner demons, and they still could have been a team of eight instead of pieces of seven.

“But it wasn’t that easy,” Chan continues with a rasp and one last sniffle. “We all had our shit to deal with—we still do—and they’re not things that we can just up and run from. So.”

There’s a heaviness that slides over Minho’s ankle. Chan’s hand spreads warmth through the blanket into Minho’s bare skin, like a paperweight keeping the berserk scattering of ugly thoughts at bay.

Gentle resolve lines Chan’s mouth as he clears his throat and asserts, “We’re here for good, Min. To stay. No more fending for ourselves. No more life as strays. Your hardships become ours.” When Minho stretches out his leg towards Chan simply to show he’s listening, and the latter begins to rub soothing circles into the sheets. 

“I know how much Sung meant to you.” Minho’s eyes peel open again, refocusing on the folds of the curtain laid over the window. “I know there’s probably so much going on in your head right now. But I really need you to understand that we’re all here for you. Hyung is here for you.”

Minho imagines what it must have felt like for Chan and Felix to discover that yet another one of their friends had ended up mangled by a poor excuse of a parent. He imagines how terrified they must have been, how relieved they were at the actuality that they wouldn’t have to mourn another premature loss so soon after the last. They must have booked the earliest flight. They must have pissed off their bosses by abandoning their jobs to come back, worried their families, and dropped everything just to be here. 

For Minho. 

“Thank you,” Minho’s words scrape his throat after going unutilized for far too long. He feels just as small as he did that day he was released from the hospital, Chan’s comforting touch weighing heavy on his soul.

“Yeah,” is all Chan says in return. And he expects nothing else. 

The stillness settles again, the pressure against Minho’s eyelids rises and falls in time with the sporadic storm of emotions raging within him. He’s glad that when he opens them, only the light blue wall and sealed curtains are offered in his line of view. The concept of witnessing someone so independent, so strong, and so revered as Chan cry is a bit jarring, even though it lifts something inside him to hear it. Like the foul taste of medicine or the sting of disinfectant spray over an open wound; painful and perhaps haunting enough to never want to experience it again, but completely imperative to recovery. Like to the sight of seeing your parent cry, which is the most accurate comparison seeing that Chan has probably been as close to a father that Minho has ever been able to experience since he was 15. He’d attended every one of Minho’s dance events since they had all met, taken countless photos and videos of their ragtag group to show off at later times, and even began teaching Minho how to drive. He can’t recall ever taking his driver’s test, but the license later found in Minho’s possession only proved to show that the eldest had been nothing if not impactful as a role model.

Chan’s palm stays over Minho’s ankle, the comforter sandwiched in between, as the minutes pass by. Eventually, the sniffling abates and the palm begins to rub small circles again.

“Felix is with Changbinnie right now,” he suddenly states. Minho darts his focus from the stain on the bottom of the curtain to a spot of unpainted plaster on the wall. 

“He’s trying to be secretive about it, but he’s always sucked at that,” there’s a lighter color to his tone now. “I think they’re okay now. Maybe not there just yet, but they’re okay. I know Binnie doesn’t stop by, so I thought it would be funny if you knew before they even let anyone know. Once you’re back on your feet, I’m sure you’ll be a little shit about it.”

Minho lets a breath out through his nose, a recognizable sound of acknowledgment. 

“He was always making fun of you guys to Sung’s face when Sung started writing more love songs during studio sessions. So make sure you pay him back. Only because I know Felix would actually really enjoy seeing Binnie get all shy and flustered like that.” 

Knowing his friends, Minho silently agrees with a content sigh. He closes his eyes one last time and a blank, nightmare-less sleep comes easily. 

  
  


+

  
  


One night Seungmin leaves the windows cracked open in a fit of forgetfulness. The humidity trickles in like an intruding whisper. It falls to the floor without any suspicion until it pushes into the room a bit too enthusiastically and sifts the curtains open ever so slightly.

Minho is on his back that night, the pinging from his phone having ceased long enough for him to assume it’s well past sundown. He finds this to be true—faded streams of soft moonlight invade the pitch-black darkness of the bedroom. They cut through the fog that drowns the room, that drowns Minho’s mind.

He doesn’t like it, so he picks himself up from his nest of blankets. It’s maybe the fifth time he’s left the safety of his comforters in what has probably been a week of his bedridden state. His bones cracking into place and the blood rushing throughout his body only grant him minor disorientation. 

The thick fabric of the curtain lays stiff in Minho’s fingers. The moonlight ricochets off the beige material smoothly, back towards the smudged glass of the window and becoming lost in the fingerprints. Suddenly, the luminescence leaves Minho stuck in place.

In the face of the coming new moon, each and every pinprick of white in the sky blinks and twinkles with powerful vigor. It’s gentle, but impactful; soothing, yet so strong. Every few stars littered among the mass don’t flicker like the rest, and Minho knows that those aren’t stars at all, but planets. He remembers that. He also knows that the stars don’t actually twinkle. That the light they emit bounces off the layers of the hot and cold air barricading the Earth and gives them the twinkle they’re so well-known for. 

He doesn’t know how he knows that. How does he know? The headache persists.

How does he know that?

He can’t remember.

Why can’t he _remember_?

The shimmering ether of the night sky begins to blur, the magical colors becoming less of a kaleidoscope and more of a swirly haze of mixed paints. Precisely dotted stars soften at the edges. 

For the first time since he had woken up, the first time in weeks of discovering what had come to be in this bitter future—

Minho cries.

He lets the pressure behind his eyes build until the splitting headache finally gives it one last push, and out come the endless streams of accumulated frustrations and sorrows. The emptiness in his chest swallows his pride as Minho crumbles to the floor shaking with quiet sobs. His bottom lip hurts from how hard it’s caught between his chattering teeth, his eyelids sew tight, his hands grasp frightfully hard at his teeshirt in a fit to keep himself grounded to the world around him. 

But it doesn’t work because Minho’s whole world has fallen out of orbit. It cascaded out of line, lost in the endless abyss of space. It drifted away, past the millions of planets in its galaxy in search of Jisung amongst the countless strings of constellations. That’s where Jisung laid now, Minho is sure of it, brightly shining hand-in-hand with the stars he had loved so much. And Minho could only fall further apart while Jisung rose above the horizon. 

He cries and cries, balled up with only the summer breeze to hold him steady, until the sun rises, too. 

  
  


+

  
  


The smell of the bonfire carried the salt of the sea as the wind blew from the open ocean. It tasted like summer, like happiness and serenity. Miles away from their substandard town, yet as cozy as a home could ever be.

With the summer days growing longer, the sun was finally beginning to set over the horizon. Hours of traveling began to pull at Minho’s muscles and down on his eyelids. He had never been so relaxed in years, with the calm caress of the summer running sleepy fingers through his hair that he could feel sleep would come easy if he gave it the chance. Yet the night had barely begun. The boys were lounging amongst themselves, banishing the harshness of the August sun with opened umbrellas over beach towels and leftover droplets on their skin from dipping in the clear waters. 

The ocean had never looked so blue in person. From his time spent vacationing as a kid, Minho didn’t remember the view being so lovely to simply observe. A colony of seagulls soared parallel to the skyline, gliding through the last traces of the sun’s orange light before it finally vanished into the waters. 

From the darkening blue of the late skies, stars had begun to fade into view from behind the clouds. 

“The stars are so bright out here.”

Minho hummed in response as he braced his forearms against the sturdy wood banister. 

From the perch on the suspended entryway, the entire length of the beach was in full view. Their small setup of firewood surrounded by beach blankets and coolers appeared even tinier. Felix was ripping a pack of gummies from Jeongin’s grasp. Changbin and Hyunjin seemed to be in a heated debate with Seungmin overseeing as referee. Chan was on his phone, taking pictures of their snacks around the fire. 

A quiet chaos breaking the peaceful beach air, just like the three and a half-hour drive over and every day spent together before that. Everything made sense.

“Why are you smiling?” 

With a raise of the brow, Minho turned, “I can’t smile?”

Jisung gave his own amused twist of the lips, the charm of his crooked tooth dislodging any ill feelings their overeating had collected in his stomach and replacing it with something fluttery.

“You have that look on your face.”

Another inquisitive brow. “What look?”

“You know, _that_ _look_ ,” Jisung made an overexaggerated show of replicating the far-off stare and creepy simper he had apparently witnessed on Minho’s face. “The one that I think you use when you’re thinking about Hyunjin in the air fryer.”

A bark of laughter outed itself from Minho’s throat. “That’s not the look I have when I think of that. You don’t want to see that one.”

“Then what are you thinking about?” The question had an honest curiosity laid behind it, but Minho didn’t even have a proper answer. 

He took in the olive tint of Jisung’s sweaty skin, the coming sunburn peeking out from his tank top, the dampness in his black hair as it curled with sea salt. Slightly parted lips and the red tint of his face that flushed under Minho’s scrutinizing gaze. The distant buzz of music and their friends’ lively chatter dimmed as Minho became increasingly aware of his steady heartbeat in his ears.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Calm, at peace, at home. Nothing like the erratic and wild hammering in his ribcage those few months ago. Back then, he had no idea what to make of his newfound affections. Now, he never felt more certain of what he wanted.

Once Minho met the exposed, expectant brilliance of wide eyes in the moonlight, he had his answer. 

“You.” He watched as Jisung’s lashes fluttered in surprise and tension froze him in place following a sharp intake of breath. “Seungminnie, Hyunjin-ah, Chan-hyung, everyone here.”

Minho could almost see the cogs turning inside Jisung’s brain as the younger reeled back his expression. 

“Oh,” the pools of red bloomed brighter on Jisung’s cheeks as they twitched with his stilted laughter. He tore his gaze away and back to the beach. Endearing. Adorable. 

Resisting a smile, Minho added, “Were you expecting me to just say ‘you?’”

“No!” Jisung sputtered as his hand shot up to rub away the flush from his neck, only to wince as the freshly acquired sunburn left his skin tender. A nervous tick that Minho knew all too well. 

“Stop trying to get me to flirt with you.”

“You wish, asshat.”

Minho licked the front of his teeth to subdue the satisfaction threatening to break through over his faux indifference. However, the palpable amusement in his eyes was likely too hard to hide, and Jisung made a loud noise of annoyance before punching the older in the bicep.

Minho faked a small groan of anguish, and if he unnecessarily flexed his arm as he rubbed at it just to keep Jisung fixated on the swell of muscles a bit longer, no one had to know. 

“Whatever,” Jisung huffed. His eyes returned upwards to ogle at the stratosphere above them like he had been doing for the past half an hour they had spend on the balcony. The reflection of the speckled night sky sparked fiercely alongside the wonder in Jisung’s pupils. “You flirt with me all on your own anyways. Just admit you like me.” If it hadn’t been for the ability to piece apart the inflection in Jisung’s voice at any given moment, Minho might have not picked up the softer, shyer tinge to the supposedly teasing demand. 

There was a moment—a split millisecond of obscurity—where Minho felt the air expand his lungs and fill his chest to the brim. It swelled until everything he had been keeping bottled in nearly tore him apart at the seams. His focus stayed on Jisung illuminated by the yard lights and the moon herself.

“Not yet.”

Jisung blinked as the cogs churned once more, then snapped his head to pin Minho with a crazed expression. That same wonder was still there, perhaps even more aflame. “Wha—?”

As he pursed his lips to hide another bout of amusement, Minho pushed himself off the railing and sauntered over to the staircase. “I’m going to make us some s’mores before the kids devour them all.”

He couldn’t see it, but he knew that Jisung was, without a doubt, flapping his lips in disbelief. The thought led the endeared grin to finally break through onto his face once his bare foot hit the wood of the first step.

“Wait—Lee Minho!”

There was an authentic lilt of irritation in Jisung’s outcry, but Minho kept his pace down the stairs. 

_Not yet._ The sand warmed the soles of his feet, the grit of it anchoring him to reality. Seungmin called out that they were waiting for them to teach Felix how to play the sense game. 

_Soon, but not yet._

  
  


+

  
  


“My mom made kimchi soup and ribs,” says Jeongin. “Can you please eat?”

The gummy coat of overextended silence keeps Minho’s tongue glued in place. Instead of answering, he keeps his focus on a particularly bright cluster of stars, backdropped by the many hues of purples, blues, and whites. 

Ever since his emotional dam had burst that one night, Minho has taken an affinity to stargaze again. Seungmin had been pleasantly surprised, deeming it as progress from wallowing on his back every day. 

Minho only sees it as a way to keep Jisung in the present. 

The constellations still mirror the moles that dusted his profile, the deepest colors of the night reminiscent of obsidian hair, and the waning moon a spitting image of his happiest grins. Minho tries desperately, hopelessly to salvage any and every bit of Jisung from his memories. But he comes up with none. He comes up with nothing. 

He has nothing. Nothing. 

His head hurts again. 

He ignores it.

“Hyung. Hyung, you have to eat something.”

The phone is pinging behind him. It whirs somewhere beneath the thin blanket or the freshly changed pillowcases. 

“… Hyung?” Jeongin sounds strained. A shooting star zips by, painting a stream of faded white across the sky before dissipating into the frightening abyss of space. Minho’s hand curls into the cool fabric of his shorts as he ponders the idea of how small the world is compared to the millions of trillions of kilometers spanning the galaxies. 

There’s a frustrated exhalation, then the soft clatter of porcelain clinking against cutlery as Jeongin settles down the tray of food onto the bedside table. This is where Jeongin leaves, shuts the door in the wake of his exit, and Minho is able to let his waterline brim with the daily reminder that he’s lost too much in life.

Jeongin doesn’t leave.

Retreating footsteps halt at the far side of the room, and the door does shut soon after, but the steps don’t patter off down the hallway to rejoin the rest of the family setting up the table. Minho can hear the expired air of Jeongin’s discomfort, the way his palm sifts against the wall. When the bed dips to his right, Minho has half a mind to expect another breakdown. His heart aches at the prospect of their youngest sobbing into his hands, tearing down his calmer guise to unveil an equally broken youth just as Chan did. He doesn’t expect when Jeongin says—

“I’ve never said this out loud before, but I—… I feel like it was my fault Jisung-hyung died.”

Minho’s thoughts scatter like shards of glass on the floor. He turns, mind spinning at the outrageous claim, and sees Jeongin hunched over with his forehead in his hands. His face is hidden from this angle, though the tremble of his back delivers how he’s struggling to keep himself contained.

“I should’ve been there,” Jeongin grits. The self-loathing in his voice is tangible enough for it to choke Minho’s bewilderment, condemning him into a disbelieving silence. “I left him. I left everyone, you know. Because I was _terrified_.”

His fingers drag up, fisting at his hair to further emphasize the waves of resentment shedding off his bowed shoulders. “I understand now why Changbin-hyung blew up the way he did at Felix. How angry a-and disgusted he must have felt at himself for running away because he was scared of staying to deal with the consequences—I get it because I fucking did that, too. I—Everyone was _leaving_ . Lix dropping out of school and the two of them moving back to Australia, Changbin-hyung disappearing, and even Jin was taking up more acting lessons and casting calls because—we were all _falling apart_. He didn’t want to watch everyone drift away and I didn’t want—I couldn’t see that happen. So I… I changed my enrollment from Jipshin to the school I go to now.”

No tears decorate Jeongin’s sharp features when he finally looks up. He shoots a hardened glare out the window, a self-loathing dressing his expression that leaves him looking far too old. Like he’s seen things he should have never seen as a 17-year-old kid. 

“I was supposed to go to Jipshin, too,” he whispers. “It made sense because all of you guys went there, and Seungminnie and Jisung would have been my schoolmates. But everything was changing, everyone was leaving, and—I left, too. When we should’ve all stuck together I—I really just turned my back on everyone. All because I didn’t want you all to leave me behind, so I did it first.”

Jeongin rubs at his temple roughly before straightening up, only to hang his head low in his ire while he observes the shadows his hands create in the moonlight. His voice wavers, “I used to walk Jisungie home from Jipshin when we would hang out there. I used to drop him off and make sure he went in before I went home. But I stopped. You probably don’t remember any of this happening, and… I don’t blame you i-if you hate me, but I stopped walking him home. I stopped hanging out with everyone altogether. I haven’t been to Jipshin since Chan-hyung and Lix left at the beginning of last year, and I—…” A deep-rooting sadness lingers in his grimace, “I got new friends like I wanted to replace you guys. And I remember this one time when—” He takes a deep breath, “I was walking past Jisung’s house one time in the summer last year. After everyone split up and maybe two or three months before he—… And I remember him just standing there, in front of his gate, and he looked so—so _scared_. Shaking, like he wanted to cry right then and there, but then he just walked inside like it was the only thing he had left to do. His only option.”

The high-strung emotions spiking from Jeongin’s rant dwindles then, shrinking himself smaller into a defeated slouch as he peers out through the curtains. It’s as if he’s aged years in the mere minutes that had passed.

“I could have stopped him from going in that day,” he whispers, more to himself than to Minho. “I had an awful feeling from the way he looked at that damn house, but I turned and walked home like I didn’t see anything. I—I could have saved him. I could have told him not to go in and even found out what was going on in there. He would still be alive if I—”

“No,” Minho’s voice cracks awfully from its lack of use and his intense desire not to hear the end of Jeongin’s sentence. “It—it had nothing to do with you. You couldn’t have done anything.”

Jeongin appears mildly taken aback by Minho’s words filling the air again after their long absence. He shakes his head when his composure returns, “That’s the thing, hyung. I _could_ have done something—I could have _stayed_. Everyone had their reasons to leave. And while you and Seungminnie a-and Jisung stuck together, I left because I wanted to. I had the choice to stay, but I didn’t.”

Minho scrunches his face, a sourness churning in his stomach and washing up his throat. “It’s not your fault.”

A sad, crooked laugh leaves Jeongin’s stretched lips. He looks back down at his hands. They’re much larger than the ones Minho recalls him having from the more shallow depths of his recollection, and they’re shaking. “I ran away because I didn’t want to watch my family fall apart. And now I think it’s happening again.”

As the throbbing slithers back into his head, Minho shivers at the sudden infliction of pain. He feels at another loss, another dead end while the word _family_ only stabs a wedge further into his scar. 

“I thought I would have learned my lesson from before, but I still can’t do it,” Jeongin confesses. “I can’t watch as this all happens again. Can’t watch you lose yourself like this…” He looks Minho square in the eyes as his own burst with thousands of emotions that only someone who truly loves you would possess. “I can’t watch you fall apart—we all can’t do it again. So please, hyung. Let us be here for you. Let us help you.”

He smiles. No braces, no baby fat, but the same young kid that wants nothing more than to spend time with the hyungs he admires so much. 

“Ah,” Minho bites his lip. The shine rising over Jeongin’s pupils makes his chest feel tender with sentiment. “I really made you worry, huh? Our little Innie.” 

And then the smile melts away, and Jeongin lets his tears spill alongside a watery laugh. Minho opens his arms to let the younger fall into them, only then realizing how his face is also getting progressively damper. 

“I-I was so worried, h-hyung,” Jeongin’s weeping is muffled by the fabric of Minho’s teeshirt. “I’m sorry I left, I was s-so fucking scared. I won’t ever leave you guys again.”

“Watch your mouth,” Minho sniffles, and holds Jeongin closer in his grip. 

Within the confines of this moment, Minho feels like the whole world has unbarred from its cage. The walls come crashing down. His eyes focus and the tunnel he’s been wandering in the dark is suddenly blown wide open to reveal that he’s been at the place he’s needed to be this entire time. 

So when Hyunjin peeks into the room upon Jeongin’s prolonged disappearance and quivers a lip at the scene before him, Minho extends his arm out to him in invitation and feels his headache lift as his two friends huddle into the limited space the twin bed provides. Half an hour later, Minho is struggling to wrap his arms around Hyunjin, Jeongin, and Seungmin as they all shower Minho with honest words of affirmation and vows to bide the rest of their lives together. 

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Jeongin blubbers amongst his tears. “Please stay as long as you want.”

Seungmin leaves no hesitation to weep back, “We’re staying. We’re not going anywhere.”

Minho clings to them without any intent to let go anytime soon, so he can feel every rumbling emotion, every tearful breath and bittersweet giggle. 

“Just don’t leave again,” he grouches lightly, though it only makes Jeongin cry harder with apologies. “I’ll hunt you down if you do. We’re stuck with each other forever now.”

 _Because we’re family._ And he holds them tighter. _Let them take care of you._

“God, where is everyone? Tell them to come spoil me.”

The three laugh at Minho’s childish demands and nonetheless comply with his whims. Chan arrives first, looking like he was fresh out of the shower by how his wet hair is frizzing in the humidity and the faint smell of lemon soap draping them as he joins their little pile on the bed. He looks at Minho proudly, fondly at them all, like he’s elated to have everyone here together again with their hearts on their sleeves and happy tears in their eyes. 

Changbin and Felix come twenty minutes later. As soon as the two arrive, Felix immediately busts out the waterworks and screeches how much he loves all of them. Changbin hangs back, as if he isn’t sure what to do with the scene in front of him, until Chan manhandles him onto the bed to be sucked into the emotional mess they’ve all created. Laughing, crying, together—just like it’s supposed to be. 

Minho makes a mental note to pester Changbin later for never visiting him, and definitely for arriving with Felix. 

For now, he lets go of his worries. He lets go of the unreachable past that he’s been yearning to grasp for answers; all the answers are here, in the form of six people willing to give him their lives just so Minho can live his. 

He’s not 19 anymore, and as much as he wishes that he could go back, Minho finds that this future might need him the most right now.

  
  
  
  
  


iv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading this chapter!  
> a bit of a shorter chapter, but an important one nonetheless! lots of crying, but it seems fitting in regards to the context of the last chapter's ending eheh :,)  
> i was also very pleased with how the beach scene turned out. as the last clear memory minho has, i wanted to emphasize how content he was with life at that point. i hope you all enjoyed it, along with the rest of the chapter. all the kind comments are so wonderful to read and they've fueled my passion for this work, so i really do hope that u all have been enjoying it.  
> only two more chapters to go, along with an epilogue :0 again, thank u for reading and i truly look forward to seeing u in the next update. stay safe friends !!

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to hit up my [cc](https://curiouscat.me/krosevilla) !


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